To Quiet Nights
by objectiveheartmuscle
Summary: "In the grand scheme of things, these quiet moments are rare, and to you, it's law they be cherished." Or, in the chaos of their lives, peaceful interludes are the stuff of Dimitri's dreams and he tucks them away when they happen, little pocket memories for the rest of the time when life tries desperately to tear him down again and again. [A series of related one-shots.]
1. To Quiet Nights

Set between _The Indigo Spell_ and _Silver Shadows_.

* * *

"Sweet," Rose says one night in bed, laptop perched on her crossed legs and the fan whirring loudly in protest from sitting on the comforter. "If I get a one-fourteen on the final, I can slide out of western civ with an eighty."

It takes you a second to realize getting 114 percent on a test without extra credit is mathematically impossible, but you cover it up with an amused snort, not looking away from your book.

Over the past few months, you've watched with amazement as Rose managed to keep up with Lissa's university schedule despite the shenanigans occurring out in Palm Springs and Sonya's somewhat related spirit vaccine project. True, Rose isn't away from Court all that much, but with everything going on — including Sydney, who's become a close friend to Rose in recent months, getting whisked away by her superiors to some undisclosed location for "disciplinary actions" — her attention could certainly be more distracted than it has been.

"How much do you need for a seventy?" you ask. History is her worst subject, and that only amplified when she got to the university format of fewer class meetings and a shorter timeline and faster pace.

She taps a couple numbers, clicks the trackpad once. "A ninety-two."

Maybe _keep up_ is too overzealous a description. More like _somewhat regularly attended lectures and occasionally turned in homework_.

"That's not impossible."

"Comrade." She's fixing you with a look, the one that says you're being overly optimistic. You don't see it often, but your optimism tends to show up when she's particularly down about something. You hate seeing her sad. "You've met me, right?"

That gets a laugh out of you, though it's more of a humorless, acknowledging-the-irony sound. Still, it's more than what most people can do.

"What's on the final?" you ask, because if nothing else, you're a planner. Or, more accurately, you've trained yourself to be a planner to keep your reflex for overreacting in check.

"Uhmmmmm," she drags out, opening a new tab and pulling up the online portion of her class. Her eyebrows furrow as she skims through the announcements on the front page. "Forty identifications, half a point each. A mix of twenty-five true-false and multiple choice questions, a point each. Five short answers, minimum one paragraph, five points each. One essay, thirty points. The essay is open-topic, we just have to pick an event we covered during class and explain its significance on the state of affairs in the world today. God, this still sounds as awful as it did when I got the email last week."

Actually, it sounds typical of the work St. Basil's had you doing when you started secondary school, but you don't mention that.

"What does it cover?"

"It's cumulative."

The try-playing-this-up-to-make-me-feel-better look is out in full force. She only uses it when her pessimism is so intense, you doubt even Lissa could make her see the positives in a situation.

"I'd say 'start studying', but I'm sure you've beaten me to that."

She sighs heavily. "I barely scraped by in the first half of this class, and I really don't want to have to repeat the second half."

"You only have to pass two semesters of history, right?"

"Yeah." She closes the laptop, sets it down on the floor under the bed, and curls against you, throwing an arm over your waist. Recently, the two of you have had nights off together more often than not, but you know that'll change in the next few weeks as she and Lissa focus on finishing their semester. They'll probably stay on campus for finals like they did in the fall, so you decide to focus on Rose, bookmarking the novel in your hands — one of the many you've read so many times the spine is falling apart — and wrap her up in your arms tight. In the grand scheme of things, these quiet moments are rare, and to you, it's law they be cherished.

"What's passing? A 'C'?"

"Yeah."

You kiss the top of her head. "You'll pass."

"You sound awfully sure of me."

"I'm always sure of you. Do you have anything else for that class?"

"Nope. I do have, like, a paper for everything else, though, because Lissa couldn't pick something easy to major in, like biology, where papers don't exist."

"Biology has lab reports that are just as long, if I remember correctly."

"Wow. I'm shocked your memory still works after all this time. I thought old age deteriorated the mind."

"I've only been out of school five years, Rose."

She does math, though she's admittedly slow to work out the numbers. "Okay, your math is definitely worse than mine. You're only twenty-six." She turns her head to look up at you where you're half-slumped against her headboard, her eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Ivan went to university," you explain, only realizing what you're saying after it's out and she's raising her eyebrows. In the year and half you've known her, you can count on one hand the number of times you've talked about him.

"Really?"

You nod. "It's a different process than what you and Lissa did. There's no application. But St. Basil's offers the university entrance exams to anyone who wants to take them because the school's technically part of the state education system. Ivan was expected to get a degree, so I was, too, by extension. After . . ." You can hear it like always when you think about it, the echo of a voice on the phone telling you reassignment paperwork was being sent to you and _we're very sorry for the loss of your charge_. "They moved me to the European Court within days of his passing until I made a decision about what to do next, so I didn't get to finish. It disappointed my mother more than anyone else. I was the first in the family to get the opportunity."

She's silent, dark eyes filled with love and curiosity watching you intently, her chin propped up on her fist against your abdomen. That's one of the first things that captured you in the beginning, a passion and thirst for knowledge that seemed ready to spill over at a moment's notice. Rose Hathaway was never meant for a traditional classroom, unlike you who excelled at rote memorization and regurgitation, but that doesn't keep her from being the smartest woman you know, soaking up the world around her like it might disappear any moment, and given your lives . . . dying tomorrow that isn't that much of a dramatic exaggeration.

"Where'd you guys go?" she asks, sidestepping the unhappier parts of the conversation because she knows it'll send you into an irreparable spiral for the rest of the night, and it's one of those times you're grateful she can read you so well.

"Irkutsk. He would've liked one of the more prestigious universities in Moscow or Saint Petersburg, but he understood it would've been a challenge for his guardians." You frown, remembering your hesitance over even Irkutsk being too big for your friend's safety, a hesitance that was later proven right, but then Rose is pushing your hair behind your ear. Your sadness slip back into the past at her touch. "He went for business." You catch her hand, lace your fingers together and nose along the inside of her wrist, her scent calming the emotions inside you getting ready to steamroll over your mood. You don't miss the way she leans into you in response, and you crook a smile when you meet her eyes and deadpan, "I didn't mind most of the courses, but accounting deserves its own level in Hell."

She laughs, pressing her face into your t-shirt, and then looks back up. It doesn't seem possible, but the love in her eyes has grown even more, like the declaration made her fall for you all over again. "Would you finish if you could?"

You open your mouth and then close it, considering your answer. "If I had to go back to studying business . . . probably not. I was only doing that because of Ivan, and he didn't have a choice, either, as far as his parents were concerned, so no, I don't think I would. If I could go back and start from scratch . . . yeah, I might."

"I'd like to see you as a lit major," she says, shifting to trap one of your legs between hers. "Then you could put all your reading to use."

You roll your eyes. "Some people read for fun," you reply, echoing something you're sure you've said a thousand times before and when she smiles, a mixture of ruefulness and fondness, you know for a fact that you have. "I don't know," you add, sliding down nearly the rest of the way so that it's just your head resting against the headboard and your shoulders almost touch the pillow long ago designated yours. "I couldn't tear stories apart for a grade. There's a mysticism that gets lost when you start analyzing the words and why the author put them on the page. I'd probably go for something like philosophy or religious studies. Mathematics, maybe, if I could devote myself full time."

"That . . ." She shifts again, giving your hand a quick squeeze as she considers your answer. "I'm actually not surprised by any of that. The math, kind of, but I'm sure it's just as thinky as the others, and I'm just not seeing the connection."

"It's its own language," you explain reflexively. "Some people think we can talk to God through mathematics. I'm not sure how much I believe that, but I certainly think it holds the secrets of the universe, which is kind of the same thing. Regardless, it's interesting to think about."

"Figures I'd end up with a nerd," she mutters.

Your laugh this time is genuine, rich and warm and full-bodied, even to your ears. The pleasantness in your body when you see her smile spreads. You have a few issues that are better worked out with a therapist instead of a punching bag, so you don't laugh often, but when you do . . . the way she lights up in response is enough to make you want to never stop.

"You're just as intelligent," you argue, thumb stroking the turn of her back where her bra strap usually wraps around. The shirt she's wearing suspiciously looks like one of the dozen that have gone missing from your closet since September but you really, really couldn't care less about having to replenish your wardrobe every few months. They look better on her.

She doesn't believe you, eyes narrowed as she shakes her head. "I'm good at the physical stuff, like punching and kicking. P.E. was my best class in elementary school."

"With science right behind," you counter, which has always been ironic to you given how tragically bad at math she is. Last semester, when Lissa took a math class for people who'd already completed Calculus in high school so she could satisfy a requirement, Rose had to have another guardian cover for her so she could struggle through a lower level math in a different building.

"Yeah," she says and you could know without breathing she has yet to be convinced.

"Not everyone is good at school," you say, desperate for her to understand how you see this part of her. "You're amazing at dreaming up schemes to achieve the impossible. Your security detail plan for Sonya and Mikhail's wedding was flawless, and I know everyone working that event was impressed. Even if you're not book-smart per se, you've got street smarts to rival the best of them."

Her eyes are still narrowed. Damn. Time to call in the big guns.

"Plus, you escaped from a place more secure than the White House with your best friend when you were fifteen and lived on your own for two and half years without getting in any real kind of trouble." Your hand slides up her back to play with the ends of her hair. "I can't think of anyone else who could've done that. And that's not getting into the stunts you've pulled since we met."

Her grin is bright and infectious, and she drops her head to rest her cheek against her now flattened hand. "You sound impressed by that."

"I was. I still am. You have no idea how hard it was to find you two. That night . . . the moment I saw you, I knew you were the kind of person whose abilities were underestimated by everyone around them. Before I even introduced myself, I made a promise that I wouldn't let your intelligence be brushed over by anyone ever again."

"Really?" she asks, voice small, like she's hesitant to believe you.

You nod, your hand wrapping through her hair to rest on the back of her neck, massaging gently. There's something about her that makes you more tactile than a newborn discovering the world around them. Any moment spent in her presence not touching her is a moment wasted.

"You're the smartest woman I know," you reply, voicing your earlier thought, and something warm and giddy shoots through you at the sappy look that comes over her gorgeous face. It's because of the compliment, but part of you suspects it's specifically the word choice. She's freshly nineteen, stuck in that weird limbo where children see her as an authority figure and older adults aren't sure whether or not she's still a teenager. _Woman_ isn't a word people are using to describe her just yet, but you do, exclusively. Calling her a girl feels weird and borderline infantile, and while it's been almost a year since she graduated, sometimes you have a hard time shaking your old instructor mindset around her, even though you never really treated her like your student.

And besides, she's proved to you she's definitely a woman in every sense of the word during the countless nights, mornings, and hours in between that the two of you have shared.

She doesn't speak, instead rocking up to kiss you, unlinking your hands so she can anchor herself on your shoulders. Your grip on her neck tightens involuntarily, wordlessly telling her you enjoy the gesture. It's soothing, like coming home to her after a month away. There was a time when all of her kisses lit you on fire, and while that's still true about some of them — namely when it's been a while, like that one exceptionally rare weekend morning you both had off — you're usually calmed by the majority of them now, brief, momentary reminders that she loves you or was thinking about you. You were saddened by this when you realized it one day, until you reminded yourself it's a completely normal side effect of settling down. You're at your most peaceful when you're with her; her kisses only increase that feeling tenfold. They're familiar now, a constant in a world that insists on changing every day, and they keep you grounded, even on your good days.

How you gave this up — multiple times — is beyond you.

She pulls away, wrapping her arms around your torso and resting her head on your shoulder as you finish sliding down to lay flat, pulling the comforter up to her mid-back. You're so blissed out by her that you feel ready to float away. If it were possible to live inside a single moment for the rest of your life, you'd choose this — the two of you, happy and in love, existing in each other's spheres and nowhere else.

"Keep kissing me like that and I'll buy a ring tomorrow," you joke, voice soft. You've been talking marriage almost from the moment you officially got together with her, and while she's been adamant about waiting until she's twenty, she's never outright said she doesn't want to. At her birthday dinner a month ago, her eyes had met yours when someone mentioned she was starting her last year of teenagehood, a heavy, meaningful look passing between the two of you.

"What, you don't already have one?" she quips back and you'll swear to anyone who will listen that your heart legitimately skipped a beat at her words. This is the closest she's come to agreeing and you can feel your hopes rising. At this point, she's less than a year out from her twentieth birthday, so the timing isn't ridiculous anymore; plenty of happily married couples had engagements last over a year.

"If your father wasn't hanging around Court I would. That's probably irrelevant, though. I'm sure if I went to a mall five timezones away, he'd know before I even got inside the store."

You can barely believe the words coming out of your mouth. You're having an actual, honest to God conversation about engagement rings with her. Up until now, whenever you mentioned getting engaged, you were met with eye rolls and jokes, and half the time it usually ended in sex, always a diversion tactic on her part.

You still get an eye roll this time, but it's not directed at you. "Abe's harmless. Besides, if he did approach you about it, it couldn't possibly be any worse than when he and my mom cornered you last fall."

"Roza," you say lowly, memories of that awful, long, awkward as hell conversation flashing through your mind. "I specifically remember that being three of the longest hours of my life. I can't imagine how painful it would be if we were discussing my proposing to you."

She fucking _giggles_ , a quiet, maniacal laugh that leaves no room for interpretation who her father is. "Well, if you do find the courage to get a ring, it better be rockstar levels of awesome. Like, minimum three diamonds. If I have to wear jewelry, I want to go all out with it."

At first, this isn't what you expected her to say about what she wanted. Practicality is her middle name if you go by her fashion sense and insistence on separate bank accounts. But on second thought, a plain, simple ring isn't really her. She's loud and unapologetic, her personality flashy and bright, like someone bejeweled her soul. The party animal that she tamped down her senior year occasionally resurfaces from time to time when she capitalizes on the benefits to having a boyfriend over twenty-one.

You've already come to the conclusion that she won't wear the ring when she's on duty, which is fine with you. You rather she only wear it part-time to protect her hand in case she ever had to throw a punch, despite the hopeless romantic in you wanting to insist she never take it off. Her _nazar_ is her most worn piece of jewelry currently, and that usually only comes out if her parents are in town.

"I'll see what I can do," you promise, brushing your lips against her hairline as you card her dark locks back, reveling in the softness between your fingers. Her hair is your weak spot and you'll always be thrilled she doesn't mind you playing with it any chance you get.

"You may have to talk to Abe anyway," she says after a moment, and when you pull yourself from your thoughts and look down at her, she's wearing a devilish, shit-eating grin.

"Why?" you ask, unsure if you want to hear the answer.

"I would expect a man of your high morals and integrity to ask my father for my hand in marriage and all that bullshit. And anyway, he's Muslim. They're big on stuff like that, though I don't know if matters as much if he's not practicing."

You and high morals in the same sentence is laughable. "I wouldn't be asking for your hand, but that doesn't matter. I wouldn't even think about doing it unless you wanted me to."

"If it isn't my hand, what would you ask for, then?" That curious look you love so much is back.

"In Russia, it's . . ." You trail off, trying to figure out how to best phrase in English what you're trying to say. You wouldn't know where to start if you had to explain what language you think in, but important things — like anything to do with Rose — are very clearly in your native tongue. Sometimes, as a result, you have to stop and translate your thoughts for the sake of those listening. "It'd be less my asking your parents for permission to marry you and more my seeking their blessing for us to start building a family together. I'll probably also end up explaining how much I love you and am committed to your happiness, even though I've made that clear in multiple conversations already. And—" You hold up a hand when she opens her mouth. "I know we can't have children together, but that's not important because when I think about who my family is, it's only ever you who comes to mind."

Her eyes are glossy, letting you know you've hit her romantic streak. She's not the type to wax lyrical about her feelings — her declarations of love are pretty blunt, just like the rest of her — but she loves it when you do, which is good considering how often you feel compelled to remind her how much you adore her.

"When did you start thinking that?" she asks, voice soft.

"I think it was . . . actually, I don't remember," you admit, one hand still threading through her hair and the other resting on her hip. "I realized it last winter, I'd guess. You're my home and heart. You're more than all I need to find pure happiness."

When she speaks, her voice is thick. "Then what about people like your mom and sisters?"

"You can have different kinds of family. There are the people you're born to and there are the people who sneak into your life and permanently put down their roots when you're not looking, like you did to me."

"I've never . . . I've never really thought about it," she says, staring off into space, her line of sight brushing against your chest. "I have my parents, even if I didn't know my father until last year, but it's always been that they were the biological reason I'm here. Nothing more, really. There's Lissa, who will always be a sister to me no matter what. I kind of adopted her family as my own for a while, but I never considered them family, not in the sense we're talking about."

Her fingers are light as they trace swirls on your abdomen, warmth bleeding through your t-shirt. Her voice softens you like butter on the kitchen counter. The American accent isn't your favorite, but she somehow makes it pleasant to listen to, a lot less nasally and guttural than everyone else. "I've always had friends," she continues. "Eddie's kind of like a brother to me, and Mason was, too, but I never had a _family_ so to speak. I floated through life without one, if that makes sense." She looks at you and you meet her gaze, the intensity pushing your heart off a ledge into the cavernous space of your chest. "The closest I've ever been to feeling like I had a family was when I was with yours in Baia. Both times," she adds quietly, like it's important you know this even though you're already very intimate as to how well they took care of her last year. "But I think . . . yeah, I'd call you my family if someone asked. You're the only person who completely calms me down."

You gently knock your forehead against hers, needing a moment to breathe. She may be the one getting swept off her feet by your romantic rambles on a regular basis, but on occasion, she flips the tables on you, shoving you off course without meaning to.

It feels right to share her air, and you kiss her, soft and quick, needing the clarity that comes with her mouth against yours.

"I'm serious about those three diamonds," she teases, and the moment shifts to something a little less intense, pulling you back from the airplane you felt your emotions were about to jump out of without a parachute.

"Rockstar ring," you repeat, nodding. You reach up to the bedside light and switch it off, finally tired. Your hold on her hip tightens as you both shift one last time into the kind of position that promotes falling asleep. Perfect and comfortable, just like her.

"My ring size is a seven."

 _How appropriate._ "Noted."

"I know I sound way more pro-marriage than usual tonight—" She yawns, and knowing from memory how ridiculously cute she looks when she does so, you can't help but feel a little out-of-this-world lucky that this woman — beautiful, inspiring, and totally out of your league — chooses to fall asleep in _your_ arms every night.

"Trust me, Rose, I'm very aware."

"—But I'm still not ready. If you popped the question tomorrow, I'd tell you to come back in six months."

She's more or less lying on top of you now, and your hands find the small of her back to gently press down, a silent showing of your understanding and accepting her feelings. A streak of heat flashes through you when she pushes her hips against yours in response. "Good," you say, "Because I'll need time to recover from talking to your parents, and that's not a conversation I think will happen any time soon."

"That's if they let you live to see the sun rise," she says around another yawn, snuggling deeper into you despite the absolute lack of space between your bodies. "I know they're still adjusting to our relationship, and my mother's the kind of person who'll punch her own daughter if she's upset enough. You telling them you're going to propose will easily push her to there, so, you know . . . good luck with that. I'll begin making arrangements for your funeral in the morning."

"Thanks. That's really reassuring."

She laughs, shrugging a shoulder. "You're the one insisting on a suicide mission. I'm just in it for the free bling."

You drag a hand down your face. "I've unleashed a monster."

"And when I say bling, I mean _bling_ , the kind that would make Kanye West jealous."

"This conversation is getting ridiculous. You're getting ridiculous." You sound exasperated on the surface, but you know both of you can hear your tone is filled with nothing but affection.

"Yeah, but you love me."

"I do, Roza, more than I know how to comprehend."


	2. Of Revelation & Fear

I didn't think I'd write more in this verse, but then a friend who finally finished TRC was complaining to me about how Richelle skipped over Rose and Dimitri's reaction to the news of Declan's biological parents so . . . this happened. A sequel shot for this is in the works!

Set between Chapter 19 and the Epilogue of _The Ruby Circle_.

* * *

Your body feels alien as you open the car door and slide in behind the wheel. You know for certain your hands are unattached from you, robotic in their motions and completely and wholly not yours. You stare at them where they're white-knuckling the rounded, dark vinyl. Have your knuckles always been that prominent? Have your fingers always been that long? Are your hands really that far away or — no, wait, they're definitely filling up the entire frame of— Oh hell, how can you even tell when your vision is going fuzzy on the edges?

Is this what disassociation feels like?

She says your name, and your hear it faintly from across the rental car. She repeats it, louder this time, but you don't jump a foot in the air until she brushes a hand against your shoulder.

Your whole world has shifted in the last half hour and part of you wants to run as fast and far as you can from everything including her, because no, _no_ , this isn't how it was supposed to happen, something so good cannot possibly come from something so _horrible_.

"Dimitri, you're scaring me." Her voice is the eye of your hurricane, bringing you back to shore. "I've been calling your name for the past two minutes."

You turn to look at her, still half out of your body. The motion is weird, like when you try to stare at a fixed point as you loop upside down on a roller coaster.

She doesn't appear frightened. It's more of an intense concern for your well-being, something you haven't seen in awhile. The nightmares are continuing to become more infrequent; it's been a few weeks since she's had to put on kid gloves around you. You can see her own wheels turning, but it's clear she's shelving her own emotions for yours at the moment. Thank God. You don't know if you could get through the next few hours on your own.

"I don't think you should drive," she says gently, eyes flicking to your vice grip.

You follow her gaze. Any tighter and you'd rip the steering wheel in half. You force yourself to let go and stretch your fingers out. They ache when you fan them out as you consider switching seats. Driving gives you a sense of control. Giving that up now is impossible for you to handle.

Deep breath. In for six, out for seven. Again. And again.

"I'm—" You stop. Your voice is so much weaker than you'd like it to be. Another deep breath. In for six, out for seven. That seems to do the trick. The last of you falls back inside yourself. "I'm alright. I just—" You blink, shake your head. "I need to drive. Just give me that right now. You can yell at me if we crash."

You don't have to look at her to know the shifting is her silent _I'm not happy but I'll let you have this one_. It's not a cold shoulder; it's more of an irritated-but-relenting shoulder. That particular bit of body language was among the first you were treated to the night you met her.

It's still another few heartbeats before you're digging the keys out of your pocket and turning over the ignition. She doesn't say anything.

* * *

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks a little bit later, sneaking a glance at you. Watching you in her peripherals is the only thing she's been doing since you two left Clarence's. Her voice is quiet. She's trying not to frighten a wounded bird.

Your shoulders are tense, your elbow resting at the junction where the window disappears inside the door and your free head propped against your fist. To someone sitting in the backseat, it probably looks like you're leaning as far away from her as possible.

"Not really," you reply, barely able to get the words out. Some inane pop song is playing low on the radio and you switch hold of the wheel to flip through the presets. Everything is irritating, grating — _too loud_ — and you scan down to the 80s to find the classical station. There's enough interference in your own head. You don't need canned, repetitive lyrics filling the gaps between your thoughts.

"I don't want to talk right now," you amend. You chance your own look at her — wild dark hair barely held back in a ponytail, blue jeans and white t-shirt giving her the kind of simple elegance models spend their whole lives wishing for. Her lower lip is between her teeth, worrying it relentlessly as she looks out the window. In her lap, she flips her phone without pause.

You want to reach out and touch her — take her hand, tuck an escaped stray lock of hair behind her ear, anything to reassure her that you're here with her. Something's stopping you, though, something you can't name, so you settle for dropping your hand from radio to gearshift.

You could kill Adrian right now, with your bare hands and the kind of raging bloodlust you've always had to work to keep under control your whole life.

Sydney, too, though admittedly you like her a smidge more than Adrian for various reasons. Still.

Things have been _so great_ with you and Rose lately. She finally convinced you into therapy, and talking to someone who doesn't already know everything has made a drastic difference on both your mental health and your relationships. You don't talk about last year with Tristan, the therapist you see at Court. You find it much easier to talk to Sonya Karp about everything related to that; it's the one thing that's impossible to explain to someone who hasn't lived through what the two of you have.

Yes, Rose was there, and yes, she saw you at your absolute worst, but she never experienced it for herself and you pray daily that she never has to.

So it's Sonya you talk to about your life two springs ago and you listen to her worry over working with spirit so much. There was one time, back in the winter, when she wondered aloud what the world would be like if Mikhail had found her before the how-to manual on Strigoi restorations became public knowledge. You'll never forget the haunted look in her eyes when she turned to you and asked if you'd wished Rose had succeeded that night on the bridge.

 _Sometimes_ , you admitted. _Mostly on the bad days, when I'm away from her for a while. But then I see her or hear her voice, and I realize how happy she is with me around. She's so full of life that it makes my bad days a little more bearable._

As hard as it is to talk about it, you find some inner peace during those conversations.

Tristan wants you to start taking anti-depressants. You say no every week. It's a stubbornness left over from your childhood more than anything. You've come to accept the validity of mental illness, but you still can't shake the the stigma you grew up with, a rotation of societal conditioning that _it's all in your head_ — _everyone has hard times, stop acting like a child_ — _you need to smile more, Dimka_ — _only crazies in the hospital take medication — it's all in your head — everyone has hard times . . ._

Americans are much more open about their health in comparison and it's still mind-boggling how willing they are to share their struggles with those who ask. It flies in the face of what your culture believes.

You're more or less yourself by the time you get to the rental car facility at the airport, and you're able to get through the motions of returning the car with a fake ease you spent a lot of time practicing while working through Ivan's death.

Rose is still watching you, though she seems a bit more relaxed now that it's obvious you're no longer a powder keg waiting for a spark. On the shuttle to the terminal, she folds the leg next to you up against her body, head angled to look out the window. A thin gap is left between you two, maybe half an inch wide. You're thankful she's picked up on your temporary need for space. You wouldn't be able to breathe without it.

That's one of the countless things you love about her, how she figures out your moods before even _you_ are away of what you're feeling and knows exactly how much distance you need to work through things. She's got a wife's intuition.

You wish you could take credit for realizing that yourself. It was your mother's words, actually, said to you one morning during your trip home last year. It'd been early; the ridiculous Blood King trip had dredged up things you still weren't ready to face, and so you'd risen with the sun after a sleepless night. Only your mother was awake when you'd gone downstairs to drum up some coffee and food, and she'd jumped on the opportunity to have a solo conversation with you, her only son, in the kitchen where you once nearly beat your father to death.

 _I can't begin to explain to you how happy I am that you worked things out with Rose_ , she'd said. She smiled, a pulling tight thing that pushed crow's feet into the corners of her eyes. It's your smile, the one you give when you, too, are overcome with affection.

 _How did you—_

The sounds of water in a tea kettle mumbling away on the stove was comforting, taking you back to a time when girls had cooties and the hardest thing you had to face was double-digit addition. The feeling stayed with you the rest of the day.

 _She does talk to people outside of you, Dimka, even if she rotates around you like the earth around the sun. . . . I like her. She has the intuition of a wife and the heart of a woman in love. She's much better for you than any of those girls who caught your attention when you were younger._ She gave you a look and you couldn't help but laugh because it's the kind of seriousness she gives low school grades, unwanted pregnancies, and other assorted fuck-ups. _I'll be very upset with you if she doesn't end up my fourth daughter. You need to stop screwing around before you lose her for real._

"Dimitri."

You pull out of your thoughts and sheepishly hand over your passport. The attendant at the ticket counter couldn't care less, her face all business as reads the inside cover of the booklet.

"Do you have a visa?"

 _Pull it the fuck together, Dima._

"Yeah," you say with a shake of your head, finding your wallet and pulling out your green card to slide across the counter.

A little voice in the back of your head starts nagging you about how much easier processes like this would be if you got your shit together and applied for citizenship already. The rest of you is amazed you can even think about that given the implosions going off in your brain every other minute.

The instructions given to you and Rose were to be on the next plane back to Pennsylvania as soon as it was ascertained that Jill was safe for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, "next plane" meant mid-afternoon at one of the busiest airports in the country, making security a bitch to get through, but at least it eats up an hour and half.

Not that Court holds all that much entertainment upon your arrival. Reports need to be filed with various people and entities; there's already a private jet with half a dozen guardians on its way to bring Jill and the rest back to Court; Lissa and Rose want to see each other in person as soon as possible so the former can get all the off-record details of the extraction.

Running your to-do list in your head keeps you from losing it.

You can feel how carefully blank you're keeping your expression and you wonder how many other people in the TSA line know how close you are to breaking down.

Rose sits at the gate for all of five minutes before she's up and gone, off to walk aimlessly around the terminal and get food. In moments like these, when your world has been rocked, you retreat in on yourself; for Rose, the only thing keeping her together is her own corporeal body.

You cave when she returns shortly before boarding, McDonald's bag in hand. You let your eyes run over her body as she approaches, fixating on her lower torso. It's as flat as it's ever been; that doesn't stop you from letting your imagination wander.

Then, last night hits you like a brick to the head. And then the night before that. And the afternoon two days before that. You could keep going, all the way back to a year ago, if only you hadn't lost count a long time ago.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, and bury your face in your hands. It's a wonder something hasn't happened sooner. No, scratch that. It's a fucking _miracle_.

"I made an educated guess," she says when she takes her seat and you slowly drag your head up. The bag is on the floor next to you. From your vantage point you can see two water bottles and enough fries for five people.

"Thanks," you reply, voice hoarse from emotion and disuse.

She presses her lips together, folds her legs under her and grabs one of the waters. The sun backlights her beautifully through the terminal window. Her neck silhouettes against the strong afternoon sun, her Adam's apple drifting up and down when she swallows.

You wonder if Sonya has an easier time with looking at throats because she's Moroi.

"I'm here," she says softly, slowly capping the bottle. She holds it tight to her stomach. Her smile is small and delicate, jarring you from yourself. Those are words you don't usually use for her.

If this is how you're processing the news that you can have biological children with the love of your life, you can't begin to imagine what she's going through.

It's a sentiment she echoes aloud almost in time with your thoughts.

"I won't pretend to know what's going on with you," she says and God above do you love this woman. "But I have complete faith in you that you'll figure yourself out. Just please don't shut me out while you do. I'm here and I love you. We'll get through this."

There are tears in her eyes. She's just as overwhelmed by the news as you are.

The weight in your chest is a soaked towel to the face, and you instinctively wrap an arm around her, crushing her to you. She goes willingly, likely dying for your touch the whole day, and you bury your nose in her hair until the towel disappears and a flight attendant calls for boarding to begin.

* * *

"Everything I say here is confidential, yes?" you ask for the billionth time.

Tristan nods. "Unless you're a danger to yourself or others, this time is between you and me and whoever you decide to share these sessions with."

You're still dubious about doctor-patient confidentiality even though Tristan hasn't given you any reason to be. While Moroi openly joke about sending their therapists Christmas cards, a guardian admitting to even considering talking to someone risks a major blow to their career. It's kept under tight wraps who's seeing Tristan, who's on medication, and any combination thereof, both in the past and present. If Americans are quick to share their mental health issues, guardians more closely resemble Russians in their mindset.

As demoralizing as it is to admit to needing help on a weekly basis, it's better than continuing waking up in the middle of the night to sweat soaked sheets and a frantic Rose.

"I, um—"

Fantastic. Not even two minutes in the stammering has already begun.

"It's a, um, long story but—"

"You tell me as much as you want, Dimitri. This is your conversation to lead."

Tristan has a policy of using first names so as to make things more relaxed. You still haven't decided how you feel about that.

Deep breath. Six in, seven out. "When I decided I wanted to be with Rose, I gave up the chance to have a baby, because that's a sacrifice for being in a relationship with another dhampir. But last week . . ." You run a hand over your face as you slide down in your chair a smidge. It creaks under your weight. You're grateful Tristan's office is too small for a couch. That would make you feel even smaller than you already do.

"What happened last week?" Tristan prods gently.

His chair is catty corner to yours. One of his legs is folded over the other, his hand wrapped around the ankle resting on his knee. He doesn't take notes during your time together, another thing you're grateful for. You've been dissected enough for this lifetime and the next.

"We found out that because . . . because I'm resto—"

Tristan waits a few seconds and then supplies, "Because you're restored—"

"Rose can have my children."

It lands with a dull thud, less dramatic than how it sounds in your head. Tristan isn't fazed, which is amazing in your view. You've got a guardian mask to rival the best of them, but Tristan makes you look like your sisters when they start gossiping about their friends. You've wondered what he saw when he was in the field to make him so poised, how much he's heard from other guardians. Lots of stuff about death and guilt, probably.

"You're conflicted about this," Tristan observes. "Do you want to talk about why?"

You don't know where to begin, so you pick a random place and start talking.

"Rose was . . . shocked when I chose her over having a kid. She called it a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I remember that vividly because I remember thinking to myself that my once-in-a-lifetime opportunity was loving her. I can have a baby with anyone. I can't love anyone the way I love her." The words sound convoluted to your ears, but you think you get your point across.

"I sense a 'but' coming."

"Yeah." You give a half-smile that quickly fades. "I wouldn't trade what I have with Rose for the world, not even a chance to go back in time and change certain events, but . . . she's made it clear more than anything else that she doesn't want kids."

Tristan only nods. It's weirdly comforting.

"It was always a non-issue up until now," you add. "It couldn't even happen, so we never talked about it."

"This new information scares you."

 _It does? No, I don't think it does._

"Your relationship with Rose has been pretty stable for the past year or so, all things considered. This change is a threat to that stability. And regardless, I can see it all over your face."

Damn. Okay, so maybe you are scared, just a little.

"You're what, twenty-seven?"

"Twenty-six."

"Mid-twenties," Tristan compromises. "Settling down is something you're starting to think about, especially since you're closer to thirty than twenty now. That's totally normal." He sits up straighter. "I want to make sure you understand that."

You nod.

"You're in a committed, hopefully long-term relationship. You're in your mid-twenties. You come from a more traditional background. I'd be worried if you _weren't_ conflicted about this." He tilts his head. "How old is Rose again?"

"Nineteen."

It sounds so young coming out of your mouth that it sickens you for a beat. You forget all the time how young she really is and when you are reminded of it, you try skip over the thought. It doesn't normally bother you. In this context, though, it's a dirty thought, and not the good kind, either. If her eighteenth birthday was a sigh of relief, her twentieth will be a blessing. Taking 'teen' off is going to make the age difference thing sound a lot less creepy.

"Rose is nineteen," Tristan says, unmoved by something that used to plague you on a nightly basis. "That's young to be thinking about settling down, at least for someone like her. Rose is in a unique situation, and I call it unique because while nineteen is about average for female dhampirs to have their first baby, she's in a relationship with another guardian. It makes sense for you guys to move slowly given how unprecedented your relationship is. I'm sure the age difference also plays a factor into the speed of things. You're her first serious adult relationship. Even after a year together, I'm sure there's still plenty she's learning and figuring out."

That you know all too well. You've talked about marriage in the abstract, an inevitability given that neither of you are planning on breaking up, and more immediately, you've been dropping hints about moving in together, especially after you realized you were able to go weeks without stepping foot in your own apartment. Part of you has been waiting for the tipping point, a feather that crushes the camel's back that is the honeymoon period your relationship is still in; since Adrian's reveal, you've been starting to think your relationship's sudden lack of infertility may be that lead feather.

But it's the little things, too — navigating time apart, days and weeks and occasionally months filled with a deep ache from not having her by your side, something she also feels just as keenly; her balancing you with everyone else in her life; both of you taking the other's mood swings in stride and adjusting accordingly, because she has almost as many issues as you do.

"What're you thinking right now?" Tristan asks, pulling you from your internal swirl.

You're not feeling particularly chatty all of a sudden; you hate being asked what you're thinking, so you keep staring out the window to avoid answering. It's nearly sunrise — there's a streetlamp somewhere underneath the third story window that's muting the pale pinks and purples streaking across the sky. You've got a patrol shift in a little bit; you know yourself well enough to admit that you think too much to get any kind of decent sleep the night after you see Tristan.

"Let me propose a hypothetical," Tristan says.

It only took him two meetings to figure out if he lets you sit in silence, you won't start talking on your own again. Your eyes drag from the window to his. They're a washed out blue, bordering on gray, and with his short, dirty blond hair, it's what you expect Eddie to look like in his early thirties.

"Let's say you've talk to Rose about this. You want a child in the future. She doesn't. Walk me through the fallout, what you think the worst case scenario would be."

Your answer is instant.

"She leaves me."

His response is just as fast.

"Do you think she would?"

That makes you pause for half a second. "Yes. Maybe."

"Really? It doesn't seem like something she'd do, based on everything you've told me about her."

"She'd . . ." _How to phrase this?_ "She'd feel like I was sacrificing this huge, lifelong desire by staying with her and not having a baby. She'd rather I be happy than grow to resent her for not giving me something I've always wanted."

"Is that what you think she would feel or is that what you think you would feel?"

You stop. That's a good question. You have a feeling it's one you'll be asking yourself for a while.

Tristan flashes a smile. "You're a smart man, Dimitri. I don't have to tell you that you won't figure that out until you talk to her."

It might be a while until you have your answer. This is a conversation you're not looking forward to having anytime soon. You're too terrified of what could happen. No matter the reasoning for it, your worst case scenario exists because of the very real possibility things could play out like that.

"Thank you for sharing this with me," Tristan says, unfolding himself with a glance at his watch, and when your eyebrows furrow together in confusion, he adds, "Fertility is a big issue for couples who struggle with it. I know it wasn't easy for you to bring it up."

You both stand. "Why wouldn't I?" you ask when he opens the door. "Isn't talking about my problems the whole point of therapy?"

"You'd be surprised how many people avoid what's really bothering them," Tristan says. "You've got a good head on your shoulders. It makes this time a lot more productive, which is only to your benefit."

"Then send my mother a Christmas card and tell her that," you say and when Tristan laughs, you crack half a smile.

"I won't ask you about going on medication this week. I'll see you next Tuesday, Dimitri."

* * *

You unconsciously throw yourself into work, giving yourself some bullshit excuse about wanting to start saving extra cash for the slew of birthdays and holidays that start up in a few months. It's how you've always coped with your problems — avoiding them until they bury you alive, mostly by overthinking them during endless patrol shifts.

Christian notices you're suddenly spending nearly all of his waking time with him, and when you start working doubles, picking up overnight shifts even though he doesn't need them with Lissa's twenty-four hour, six guardian coverage, she also picks up on the change. To your relief, they both quickly figure out that you're not about to start telling them why.

As far as charges go, Christian's great — he's as low-maintenance as they come, and his wit and sense of humor are similar to his aunt's. Most of the time it's appreciated. Sometimes, though, it tugs at you, a painful reminder of what could have been had you taken Tasha's offer. It hits you particularly hard whenever he gets excited about one of his trainees mastering a new spell or making noteworthy progress.

Guarding Tasha certainly would have made this whole fertility thing a lot easier, and more generally, one of your oldest friends would still be alive. You probably would've had a baby by now, too.

You banish the thought before your imagination really runs wild. The con of not being with Rose always outweighs the pro of some fictional baby with Tasha that will probably never be.

It's this path your thoughts are wandering down in the middle of the night a couple weeks after your return from Palm Springs, and they're interrupted when you see Lissa, up way earlier than normal, stopped in the entrance of her suite's kitchen. You're leaning against the sink, nursing a glass of water, and you nod to acknowledge her presence.

"Are you and Rose fighting?" she asks without preamble, blearily rubbing sleep from her eyes as she makes her way to the coffee pot on the counter near you.

"No." As a coincidence of schedules, you've only seen Rose twice in the last week, both times at the combat portions of Christian's offensive magic trainings. The one night you both had off, you made a half-assed excuse over text about needing to call your mother, and slept in your own apartment. You know Rose didn't believe you, and even though you felt like a dick for blowing her off, it was better than not sleeping all night because you're afraid of touching her, like, _at all_. "Why do you ask?"

"She showed up here the other night in tears but wouldn't say why, and you're putting in more time than most of _my_ guardians." Lissa's going through the motions of making coffee with a sloth's sense of purpose. The time on the stove says it's half after three. "She said once that you do this. Work yourself to death when you're beating yourself up about something."

It sounds like how Rose would phrase it.

"Don't try to tell me you're not, either," Lissa adds. The look she shoots you when she finally turns the machine on to start brewing is intense and hard, a lioness protective of her favorite cub. "Rose doesn't tell me everything about her relationship with you, but I know enough to pick up when things aren't going right."

"This is the first time," you point out.

Lissa turns to reach for a mug from the cabinet in front of her. "Second."

"Second?"

"What, do you not remember how she reacted when I included you on the brainstorm team I sent out to Palm Springs last fall?"

You set the water down, crossing your arms over your chest. "She was . . . pretty okay with it," you say slowly, trying to recall her having any problems with the group Lissa had put together. "As far as I can remember, at least."

"Huh. Maybe I'm projecting. She went off on me for a solid ten minutes about how nothing good could come from you and Adrian being in the same room so soon after everything that happened."

"Really?"

Lissa laughs once, waking up a little with the action. "Yeah. It was pretty memorable. She was convinced Adrian would say just enough snarky shit to push you into smothering him in his sleep. I should've recorded it."

You half-smile at that, still running through the big conversations you had with her before you left. "No, she was pretty calm when we talked about it."

"You're good at that," Lissa remarks, deciding there was enough coffee in the pot to pour a cup for herself. A couple brewed drops splash with a sizzle when she pulls the pot off. Stains on the hotplate show she doesn't usually wait for the coffee to finish brewing. It seems like a Sydney thing, ironically enough.

"Good at what?"

"Calming the tempest within," Lissa jokes, spooning sugar into her coffee. It smells like heaven, reminding you the last time your head hit a pillow was nearly thirty-six hours ago. Shiftwork is the second most dangerous part of being a guardian, if nothing else.

She stirs, tiptoeing around a thought. "I thought I did a pretty good job of getting her to slow down and smell the roses, for lack of a better metaphor." She smiles to herself, hands wrapped around the blue watercolor ceramic, thumb tapping the marble counter. "But you . . . there's something about you that brings her to a full stop. It's good," she adds, catching sight of whatever expression is on your face before you remember to slip back into full guardian mode. "She charges through life. I used to worry about what would happen to her if she didn't find someone like you to pull her in when she needs it."

"She still would've had you," you offer diplomatically.

Lissa shakes her head. "We get different parts of her. You've got the market share on this one."

Things could've turned out very differently between you and Lissa. You're both fiercely protective of Rose and you give Lissa a run for her money on whose love and devotion is stronger. If things had worked out differently — if Lissa hadn't been the one to restore you or you hadn't needed it in the first place because you'd never gone Strigoi — it would've been very easy for animosity or jealousy to wedge itself in your relationship with Lissa. You like this dynamic you have with her. Friends is a lot better than the alternative.

"So you two aren't fighting," Lissa says, bringing the conversation back to her original aim, and this is one of those moments when you understand, clear as day, why Rose is so close to Lissa. Your wild girl has a penchant for gravitating towards people who don't let her off the hook.

"No."

"But you two aren't talking."

So Rose hasn't told Lissa. Interesting. You're not about to spill that particular secret, then. It's Rose's information to share . . . when both she and Lissa are awake and alert.

You also can't imagine Rose is going to keep this to herself forever. It's probably something that'll need to be cleared with Adrian and Sydney, though, so it might be a while before Lissa knows.

"It's . . . complicated," you say.

"So you definitely aren't talking then."

You sigh, suddenly exhausted, and run a hand down your face. "I'm not . . . I can't tell you why." Your thoughts are jamming, a jumbled mess of English and Russian and, surprisingly, what little French stuck with you from your pre-novice days in school. "It's not my place to go right now. But it . . . it changes things. Maybe. I don't know."

Curiosity and intrigue burns on Lissa's face. "Must be big, whatever it is, for you two to act the way you are."

"It's . . . huge," you settle on, referring to the impact is has on your relationship and the Moroi world at large, the latter unbeknownst to Lissa. "And it's divisive. We stand on very different sides of the situation and I don't . . ." You suck in a breath, gaze fixed on the couch on the other side of the breakfast bar dividing kitchen and living room as you try to summon up the self-confidence to share your thoughts. "One of us is going to have to compromise, and I don't want it to be her. She shouldn't have to change her mind on such a big thing just for my happiness. But if we can't compromise . . . it's the kind of thing that ends relationships."

Lissa's eyes are wide, her mug still in the air. No doubt her mind is running absolutely fucking wild with scenarios at the moment.

"I'm not thinking about breaking up with her," you say quickly, accent thickening out of your control. Your throat is tight just from saying the words aloud. The only reason you're sharing any of this with Lissa is because there's a connection between you and her — not a spirit bond, but something close. You owe your life and happiness, your soul and sanity to her, and you'll never repay that debt. Keeping her a part of your life is a single brick in the dam around your heart.

"Losing her would kill me for real," you say. "I can't imagine trying to live the rest of my life without her. But this . . . I don't know. We're a mess. We need to talk. I know that. I think we're both just worried about the outcome of the conversation we need to have. It's not . . . I can't . . ."

Lissa's setting down her mug and pulling you in for a hug before you even realize you're shaking. Her presence is soothing, a product of her spirit magic. It reminds you of all the times Karo collected you and your sisters together and snuck the four of you out the back door to Oksana's house when the fights between your parents got bad. Oksana, at least, always had warmth and attention for her younger neighbors.

Maybe you should call your mother for real.

"Work as much as you want," Lissa says when she pulls away a minute later. "But you can't hide out in Christian's shadow forever. Whatever happens because of your conversation with Rose, it won't be as bad as what _will_ happen if you ignore the problem. She doesn't give time to those who don't put up a fight."

That's another thing you know better than yourself.

"I was about to pull the concerned mother bear card on you for making my best friend cry, but you're off the hook now that I know you're not being an ass about the situation," Lissa says and then she waves offhandedly at the coffee pot. "You can have the rest of that. Rose'll probably make convince me to make us stop at Starbucks on the way, so I won't need the rest."

Your eyes narrow. "Where are you going today?"

"Lehigh," Lissa replies smoothly, taking your lack of all communication with Rose in stride. "My guardians need to do a walk through of all my classroom locations for the semester, and she and I have rentals to pick up from the bookstore."

"No dorm this year?" you ask. You should probably be up to date on Lissa's activities at Lehigh anyway, you realize, if only because she's the queen and your charge's girlfriend.

"Nope." She pops the 'p', a sign she's been around Rose a lot lately. "We're living off campus now," she says, airquoting "off campus" with her inflection, like everyone involved is in on a secret.

You make a noise that's somewhere between a snort and a laugh. They'd had a dorm room last year with an Alchemist installed on the floor as an RA so Lissa could come and go with as many people as she wanted without issue. She'd usually only stayed when she had an intense workload for school or during busy exam periods. The one time you'd seen the room, it was pretty sparse — basic bedding and some clothes in the closets with a couple books on Lissa's desk. Their room in Portland had been more personal.

"Rose will be here in about a half hour," Lissa adds over her shoulder on her way back to her bedroom as you pour yourself coffee.

You tell yourself you're not going to disappear when the comes.

It's just coincidence that you're nowhere to be found when Rose arrives with the entire monarch entourage to pick up Lissa forty minutes later.

* * *

— To Be Continued —


	3. To Awkward Lunches

Set roughly a year before the Epilogue of _The Ruby Circle_.

* * *

For literally anyone else in this world, the prospect of lunch with Janine Hathaway and Ibrahim Mazur would be thrilling, the kind of excitement that might actually make them puke from nerves but call the vile process worth it.

Unfortunately, you're not literally anyone else, and your nerves — the bad kind, because you never get a break — have gotten the better of you to the point where you're opening the cafe door with shaky, clammy hands.

They're halfway up along the far wall, sitting on either side of the table corner farthest from you, menus ignored and faces serious in quiet conversation. Just the sight of Rose's parents makes you want to turn heel and run back to Russia.

And you're supposed to get through a whole meal with them?

The hostess tries asking what you need, and you politely wave her off, gesturing towards where you're headed. The color drains out of her face when she sees who you're meeting; she mutters _good luck_ under her breath before turning to help the couple that came in behind you.

"Belikov," Abe says, standing to greet you, and you know he saw the way you discreetly passed your hand over the side of your jeans to wipe off your hand before shaking his. "You'd be late if you weren't so early."

Somehow, you manage to find your voice. "Hard to beat a man who's already on time for tomorrow."

Janine's eyes are narrowed ever so slightly. "How've you been, Dimitri?" she asks, and you swallow back the wince out how mangled your name sounds with her accent. Not for the first time, you silently wish your mother had given you a name like Boris or Igor — something still distinctly Russian yet not so difficult in pronunciation that every Westerner you meet butchers it right off the bat.

"Fine, thanks," you reply. Is small talk making things worse or better?

"And Rose?"

"Yes," Abe says, eyes twinkling, "How _is_ Rose?"

You choke on air, definitely not at all thinking about the last time you saw her — sated with victory after making you apologize rather wordlessly for working an early shift so you could have the time for this quickly-becoming-awkward lunch.

"Ibra," Janine chides, and you nearly gag right then and there. Rose has been convinced for a while now that _something_ between her parents was rekindled in the wake of Abe's introduction into her life; hearing Janine use a nickname for a man you're well aware has seen her naked pretty much solidifies that theory.

Not that you want to think about your potentially future in-laws getting it on. In fact, given the star of your own sex life, this train of thought is one you'd happily jump off.

"I'm just checking in on the well-being of my daughter," Abe says smoothly, eyeing you like a cat getting ready to pounce on a piece of meat. "The man responsible for it is sitting in front of me. Forgive me for being a concerned father."

It's Rose-logic coming out of someone else's mouth. Dear God. Five minutes in and you're ready to leave, scrub your ears out with wire wool dipped in acid, jump into a pit of lava-breathing sharks, and then swear off any activity that might make Zmey even the tiniest bit unhappy.

"Rose is fine," you say quickly.

An eyebrow slides up his forehead. "Just 'fine'?"

"She's very good. Happy. Things are going well."

 _What is this, a pick your favorite adjective activity in English language class?_

 _Might as well be. I feel like I'm thirteen again._

Abe's still assessing you, and you can't help but shift under his stare. It's as close to fidgeting as you'll let yourself get. He's leaned back in his chair, his arms across his chest. He's the king of this cafe and you're the peasant asking for another month to cough up the rent on your land because you really don't want to have to kill your only cow for the meat's profit.

Zmey could skin you alive with his teeth and you'd let him — happily — if it meant you got to marry Rose in the end.

"I was surprised," Abe says, unfolding his arms. His left falls to his lap; the right rests on the table just below where his wrist bends up as he fingers the spoon at his setting. "I thought after our last conversation you'd rather avoid either of us for a long time. Certainly not just a year and half."

You're dying to agree that he's right, that yes, you'd rather set yourself on fire than go through with this, but you promised Rose that you'd have this conversation, so here you sit, about to puke from bad nerves with a small jewelry box in your duster pocket burning a hole in your mind.

Janine leans forward, elbows on the table and temple brushing against clasped hands. "I would have to say I'm in a similar boat." Her brows furrow together. "Are you okay, Dimitri? You look like you're about to be sick."

Panic pan _icpanicwhatonEarthmademethinkIcould_ —

Your hand shoots into your pocket, grabs the box, and basically tosses it on the table before you realize what you're doing. Belatedly, you realize it's proper etiquette to take your coat off inside, so you do, draping it inside out from your side of the chair.

They look surprised. That's a victory for you. Not much catches either of them off guard, but a jewelry box — the kind only big enough for a ring — seems to have done it.

Abe is slow to reach for the box, and when he settles back and flicks it open, his other eyebrow joins the first in the middle of his forehead. Wordlessly, he turns it so Janine can see.

"That doesn't look cheap," Janine notes and you feel like snorting because _my God is that an understatement_.

What's the rule of thumb on engagement rings? That they should cost two to three months' salary? You're sure you spent about five months' worth.

At the center is a round diamond, nearly two carats in size, edged in a square of lacy filigree and tiny blue opal stones. The metal is pure platinum, and it glistens in the light.

Kanye West would be jealous indeed.

"It definitely was not," you agree, forcing yourself to calm the hell down, which is a Herculean task given how you can't stop running through a list of _what could they possibly do to me_ worst case scenarios. Given that Abe's involved, loss of kneecaps and being required to recoup an unspecified debt in twenty years that involves your firstborn and a lock of your hair are at the current two most likely contenders for what could happen.

"I'm surprised," Abe says, slowly turning the box at all angles, inspecting it like he's an expert in diamonds. He probably is. You've never been so daft as to put anything past him.

"About what?" you ask warily.

"I was expecting something a little more understated. You strike me as the type to propose with his mother's ring."

"My mother never got a ring," you say stiffly, deflecting the real topic.

"I know." The ring glints from the lights above and you reaffirm your belief that Abe earned his nickname based on the quality of his voice alone. It's serpent slick and devil smooth in his delivery, controlled and carefully uttered because every word is to be remembered.

You take a deep breath and clasp your fisted hand in your lap in some semblance of self control. No one's an idiot here; they know what you're about to ask and at this point it's more for ceremony than actually because you want to ask.

A server assistant drops by with a bread basket. Nobody touches it.

Janine has taken the box from Abe and is giving it just as intense an inspection. Across the table, Abe's staring you down, just waiting for you to open your mouth and fuck everything up.

"Mr. Mazur, Guardian Hathaway—" Formal is best in these situations — could you stall any longer? _And now they're both looking at you like they're sizing up a pig for slaughter, fantastic, where's the fucking waiter when you need a distraction_ —

"I asked to meet with you today because I wanted both of you to know before anyone else that I plan on proposing to your daughter with that ring."

Your back is sore, all your muscles and nerves tucked tight with adrenaline, and your feet feel like they're not touching the ground that's drifting lower, away from you, a completely different dimension altogether even though logically you know they're attached to you and that the hardwood floor isn't much more than a foot away.

"We've heard," Janine says. "Or, rather, _I_ 've heard, and Abe guessed it a while ago. We've been waiting for this," she adds, gesturing to the three of you with her free hand.

Abe's still staring at you. If he were American, he would definitely be the kind of father who cleans his shotguns on the kitchen table when his daughter's boyfriend comes to pick her up for a date. As it stands, you push yourself not to cower under his scrutiny. He may have only been in her life for the past eighteen months, but you were raised to defer to the wishes of parents, especially those who are liked by their offspring.

"What happened with the two of you this past summer?" Abe asks, crossing his arms.

"What do you mean?" you ask, well aware of what he's referring to.

"There were a couple of weeks . . ." He's letting you say it, but you really don't want to. That was an awful month and you never want to revisit it.

You meet his gaze, trying to work out how much he knows. It's basically impossible. He's got just as strong a poker face as you. There's a reason he's so successful in what he does, whatever it is.

"We received some news that . . . well, it changes a lot." You lean forward, shifting to stretch out your back. "For our future, at least."

Abe raises an eyebrow again, and you take the proffered box from Janine, closing and slipping it back into the pocket of your duster. Fortunately, just as Abe opens his mouth, the waiter finally appears to take drink and appetizer orders with an apology for his lateness. It gives you a minute reprieve.

"What kind of news?" Janine asks as a server's assistant refills the water glasses. You eye the kid, silently hoping Abe will commandeer the bill given that he suggested this place for lunch.

"It . . ." You want to tell. You'll have to, eventually. Lissa and Christian were finally let in on the secret not even a few weeks ago, after Sydney and Adrian agreed that they could know, as _friends_ , about Declan's birth and the implications for you and Rose. Including Eddie and Adrian's mother, who'd been there for the initial conversation, and Mikhail Tanner, from the one time he caught you in a moment of weakness, that's it on who knows.

Still, if there's a chance Janine and Abe will get a grandchild in the future, you have a feeling they'd want to know.

(As you follow this train of thought, it occurs to you that you'll have to tell your family, too, because no way would they simply accept you and Rose having a baby together with just _it can happen for us_ , and suddenly that's easily double the number of people who already know. Damn. You'll have to send Sydney and Adrian a pretty nice Christmas gift some year to make up for it, if it ever happens.)

"Rose should be the one to tell you both," you say with a shake of your head. "At the very least, it should be us together."

"And why is that?" Janine asks, using the same tone she pulled when questioning Lissa on her friends' whereabouts at the ski lodge two years ago. It's the one that demands answers and nothing less.

"She's your daughter," you say. You're not missing the irony in this, indirectly discussing (grand)children when your original intention was to talk about marriage. "It wouldn't be right."

"What I don't think is right is my daughter getting hitched at nineteen," Abe interjects, nodding to the waiter when he sets down something amber and iced in front of him. A pang of jealousy hits you; you'd love a drink or ten right now. Anything to forget this ever happened. You can feel the stress aging you.

"This wouldn't be until the new year, at least," you say. "She's been adamant about waiting to be engaged until she's twenty, and I'm respecting that."

"So you've talked to her about this," Janine says, and you nod.

"We've been talking about it for a while. She gave me her ring size this past April."

The waiter returns to take food orders, and you blindly point to the first pasta dish your eyes land on. Janine's the first to speak when the three of you are left alone.

"Assuming she says yes . . . have you considered the implications of this? Have the _both_ of you?"

Without meaning to, your eyes dart from her to Abe. You know enough from comments Rose has dropped over time that her parents' relationship was a lot more complex than a once-off affair. Rose has always held a particular interest in her mother's interest regarding her reputation, and you see where that curiousness comes from.

"You're a private man," Abe adds, sobering up, and you realize now that his earlier scrutiny was mischievous and playful, him toying with you because he could. Now he's completely serious — this is a topic gravely important to him, too. "If you and Rose get married . . . everything will be out on the table."

What it'll be is the political statement of the century, but somehow, that doesn't bother you. Not marrying Rose because of what others might think is infinitely more devastating.

"We have," you say, because this is a _we_ topic. You've considered her your partner, either as a concept in the future or as reality, since that first training session with her. When it comes to the two of you, it's always _we_. You're a two-for-one package deal.

Abe's eyebrow returns to his hairline, waiting for you to elaborate, and the other meets its twin when you feel someone come up behind you.

"Surprise, comrade," Rose says, wrapping an arm tight around your shoulders from behind before you can turn around to see who could've possibly surprised Zmey. You reach up absently to squeeze her wrist, confusion half-scrunching your face.

"Aren't you working today?" you ask, the world falling away when you twist to look up at her. She does that to you, pushing everything out of your awareness until it's just her. It's great when you're alone with her; it's hell when you're on duty or in situations like right now, when you're trying to have a serious conversation with her parents.

She shrugs, her arm still around you and your hand still grasping her wrist. "A little birdy told me you were here, and Lissa's not feeling well, so she gave me the afternoon off." When you start to argue, Rose shakes her head. "She's got two guardians outside her door, four outside her suite, and another two manning the wall her bedroom looks out from. She's _fine_ , Dimitri. Besides—" She leans down to whisper in your ear: "I couldn't not come because I haven't stopped thinking about how good you looked when you woke up naked this morning."

Your hand tightens on her wrist, both an involuntary reflex at the memory she's bringing up and as a silent warning that _we're in public_ even though that's never stopped the two of you from doing this in the past, working each other up, location be damned.

She takes the open seat then with a flourish, unbuttoning her coat and letting it crumple between her hips and the back of the chair. "May I ask what could possibly be so entertaining that both of my wonderful parents are here?" she asks no one in particular.

"You getting engaged at twenty," Janine says dryly and Rose cuts you a sidelong look before answering her mother.

"I can't tell if it's the 'getting married' or the age part that bothers you."

"It's both," Abe says, providing the kind of united parenting front neither you nor Rose are used to.

She doesn't even blink. She is where you're getting the strength to calm down right now, it seems. "Mom was twenty when she had me."

"And it almost cost me my career," Janine says, not catching the way your mouth twitched at Rose's words. Abe did, though, and you meet his gaze squarely for a moment before focusing on Janine and the way she's tracing the bottom of her water glass. "Not to mention that I was extraordinarily young."

That definitely makes you frown. In Baia, 20 is about average for girls to start having children. Your mother had been seventeen when Kalya was born; Kalya herself was sixteen when she had your nephew, Paul, and even that only raised minimal eyebrows, and that's not even getting into the average age difference between the girls who are having babies and the Moroi men fathering them. Your six and half years on Rose is basically a Russian summer compared to your parents.

Rose nods, reaching for the bread basket across the table with all the grace of a three-year-old aiming for the cookie jar atop the refrigerator. "I know. I'm getting married, not having a kid." She doesn't look at you when she speaks, even though her words have sent your heart into your throat. You say it every time she makes a small step forward and it's no less true now; that's the closest thing you've ever heard to a 'yes'. She sounds like she's already made up her mind on the matter — and lucky you that it's in your favor.

"Besides," Rose adds, tearing off part of a roll and popping it in her mouth like you're all discussing a get together next Sunday and not one of the biggest events of your life, "I have something you didn't."

"And what's that?" Janine asks, sounding extremely wary.

Rose smiles mischievously. "My best friend is the Queen. That's basically like having diplomatic immunity."

Janine shakes her head as the waiter swings by to see if Rose wants anything. All she asks for is a soda and a bread basket for herself.

"I don't like it," Abe says suddenly, and you stifle a groan, knowing full well he's just saying this to get a rise out of Rose.

Unfortunately, it works; she freezes, a chunk of bread in her hand and her jaw hanging open. The look she turns on him is one you're glad you've seen maybe twice in the time you've known her because holy _shit_ is it terrifying. It's the kind of look that says she has no problem reaching down your throat, pulling out your guts, and forcing you to eat them.

"You don't _like_ it?" she asks lowly.

Abe's eyes are fixed on her, but you can see the reaction he got is exactly what he was looking for because he's a madman whose sense of humor is as twisted as he is dangerous. "I don't like it," he repeats.

"And tell me, _Dad_ ," she says with a tone that makes you concerned for the safety of everyone in a five-mile radius of the cafe you're sitting in, "What _exactly_ about this do you not like?"

"I think you're moving awfully fast for only having been together a year."

"Fifteen months and twenty-two days," she argues, because she's definitely not counting, that would be just _ridiculous_ to think she's hoarding every second she gets with you.

"Like an extra two and half months makes all the difference," Janine says dryly and it's simultaneously as if you're nonexistent in the middle of this family spat and the one everyone's pointing fingers at.

Rose shoots her mother a glare.

"You're still young, Rose, whether you want to hear it or not," Abe says. There's a gravity in his voice that makes you realize this is his shtick — besting his daughter in the game he invented to get her to take him seriously. You can see it on her face, the way she's fighting with herself to respect what he's saying or to tune him out and write him off as overprotective and _you just don't get me_. "You both are," Abe adds with a nod to you that you return.

You recognized you had no idea what you were doing when you turned twenty-four, an acknowledgement cemented in place when you met Rose almost a year later. Until then, you thought you'd had everything figured out. Part of growing up includes the realization that nobody knows what's going on and that every adult is merely a six-year-old playing dress up and getting away with it because of some number on a calendar.

Rose bristles at Abe dragging you into this; you snake a foot out and knock her ankle gently to let her know you couldn't care les.

"I don't want you to rush into something that blows up in your face when you realize five, ten, twenty years from now that it isn't what you ultimately wanted," Abe says.

It takes you a beat to realize he's honestly worried about how Rose will take those words, and when you do, you're floored. A lifetime of knowing Zmey hasn't prepared you for seeing him through the eyes of his daughter.

His daughter, who, by all accounts, looks ready to fly through the roof (or is it fly off the handle? You can never remember), her eyes wide and mouth taut as she tries and fails to compose herself. She's chomping at the bit to defend herself and her actions, defend how much she loves you and how much you love her and how that's never going to change, which is as admirable as it is naïve.

A small part of you agrees with Abe, which is kind of a frightening concept. You've thought about this before — the growth you went through from 18 to 24, as a person and as a guardian, was stunning, and to say the person you were at Rose's age right now the the person you are now are the same would be a huge, bold face lie. Frankly, you were a hell of a lot less mature then compared to now; you mostly had your shit together, but you didn't truly buckle down and get serious the way you're presently known to be until Ivan was murdered. Rose is certainly ahead of where you were at almost twenty, but she still has a lot of growing to do.

But first: the meltdown.

"You saw what I went through," she hisses, leaning towards him, voice ice cold and posture stiff with nightmarish memories. "You were _there_ , Zmey. You saw me, drunk and crying and a temporary high school dropout because I was ready to throw away the only life I ever knew for the person sitting next to me right now, and you have the _nerve_ to sit there and say I may wake up one day and change my mind on how much I love him?"

"I'm being realistic," is all Abe responds with, inflection dipping down to match hers. "It's something that comes with age and maturity."

Age by itself is more of a nuisance for Rose than anything; at this point, the only thing she can't do for herself is buy alcohol and while you're only a couple months out from her turning twenty, you're not planning on asking her on her birthday — that's a little too predatory for your tastes.

(You're a hypocrite for thinking that, you know, based solely on the fact that you made the conscious decision to sleep with her twice when she was seventeen and even went through with it on the second occasion.)

Maturity on the other hand . . . that's a sore spot for her. When you mentioned, rather offhandedly and early on in your friendship, that you thought she was far more wise and woke to the hardships of a guardian's life than most dhampirs twice her age who'd been through hell and back, her whole body lit up. At the time, you'd responded to seeing her adore your compliment, but later, you realized she lit up because she was starved for someone to recognize that she wasn't the brassy, loudmouth troublemaker everyone assumed she was. Desperate for someone — anyone — to see that she understood what she'd been forced into signing up for by her birth, you were the first person in her entire life to tell her you recognized that in her and she'd fallen a little bit more in love with you for it.

But age and maturity together in one fell swoop? _Ouch._ You'll be cleaning up this mess for a while.

 _Spasibo, Zmey, bolshoye spasibo._

"I think you're being a pompous ass who's throwing around his opinion because he likes pissing people off," Rose says in a moment of unconscious self-clarity that makes you want to pull out a neon sign and shove it in Abe's face that says _See? She's more mature than you think._

"What do you think, Dimitri?" Abe asks, turning to you, and your eyes go wide because no, this is a father-daughter argument, you really want no part in this, if there was anyway you could just sink into the floor and die right now—

"What do I think what?" you ask.

 _Good job not looking like an idiot who's been doing nothing but staring at Rose for the past five minutes. Way to go. Keep up the good work. A-plus effort. That'd get you a five in school back home._

"Do you think I'm being realistic in thinking about how Rose's desires might change in the future?" Abe asks.

This is weird as hell. First of all, you _hate_ talking about Rose in front of her like she isn't there, probably about as much as you hate talking about your eternal spring.

Rose is staring you down, the loudest silent challenge to open your mouth in the history of all the looks she's ever given you; Janine's in your peripherals, amused and marginally worried, watching the now threeway tennis match with a hand over her mouth.

And you used to think the women in _your_ family were difficult.

"I think—" Rose's foot slides up your calf, a warning, but you ignore it. "I think it's not a completely ridiculous thought, but—"

" _Seriously_?" Rose snaps. "You, too?"

"Let me finish?" you ask gently, raising an eyebrow. She's out of line — you two made an agreement when you first made your relationship official that interrupting each other when talking about thoughts or emotions was a hard No, capital 'n' and all — and you need to start helping her reel herself in before the US drops its third atomic bomb right here in the middle of Pennsylvania.

She concedes with a grumble.

"Thank you." You reach for her hand, squeezing it in reassurance that you're not mad. To Abe: "This isn't my first relationship," you say, not wanting to get into too many details. That's a conversation you haven't had yet, the _let me list my ex-girlfriends and then spend five hours reassuring you that you're better than every one of them combined also sorry my dating history's a lot longer than yours, but we did meet in my mid-twenties and I didn't spend half my high school years on the run_ conversation that'll happen one day — maybe in ten years, when neither of you cares anymore — but not right now, not in front of your future in-laws. "Your daughter — Rose—" You squeeze her hand again, needing her calm for the sake of her sanity. "—loves me more than anyone else I've ever been with. Nobody in the world — except for her — would do what she did for me." Your voice gets tight, but you push on. Tears can fall later, in private, when she's the only one who will see them.

"I've seen how much she loves me. She's had multiple opportunities to walk away from me, and she never took advantage of a single one. Even at the lowest point of my life, she chose to stand by me and a promise she once made me before we even really knew each other, and I can't say the same for anyone else, including myself, because I don't think I could ever do what she did. That kind of loyalty doesn't waver in my experience."

There are three people staring at you, expressions in various states of amazed; Rose is by far the most emotive of her family, surprise etched into her face that you said something like _that_ in a place like _this_ in front of people like _her parents_. Usually you keep that stuff bottled inside, only sharing when you're alone and you feel comfortable enough to be vulnerable and let your guard down to say things of that magnitude.

"So I hear what you're saying, Mr. Mazur," you conclude, feeling like you just announced you had a cancerous third eye on your lower back, "But I'm not worried about Rose losing interest in me. When she lets you in . . . you're in for life, and there's . . . there's very little that can make her push you out, not even . . ."

She knows exactly what you're trying to say; she's tugging you up by your laced fingers, gesturing with her head towards the door. It takes you a moment to realize you're about to lose it, but in true Rose fashion, she figured it out long before you did.

The air is nippy without your coat, pricking at your skin in a way that's almost familiar. Winter in the States has a different edge to it than winter back home; it's sharper and more toxic, attacking you from all sides. Even at St. Basil's in the mountains, the dry air made it feel warmer than it was. You hate winter in Pennsylvania. There's not enough snow to justify the bullshit humidity and temperature fluctuations.

She didn't stop far from the door — you're vaguely aware you're standing in front of the cafe's window — and she's about a foot away, hands wringing together in front of her, unsure of what to do with themselves.

"Do you know what you need right now?" she asks, starting off a series of questions she's found has worked for helping you process these little panicky moments.

"No," you admit. Your thoughts are running at a thousand miles an hour in twelve different directions as your adrenaline kicks up to full speed. Anxiety in place of depression when you think about what you did to her is a fairly recent development, one that intrigues Tristan more than anything, but it's something Rose has taken in stride.

It was once you who calmed her down from panic attacks. The switch in roles isn't unprecedented; you always end up matching each other in the stuff that matters. It's because of your relationship's karmic inability to not parallel each other that you were adamant about her being the one to get the second Strigoi immunity vaccine as soon as it was created. (In your opinion, Rose should've been allowed to test it out the first time; trying it on Neil Raymond was a pathetic waste of resources.) You wouldn't wish your experience on anyone, not even the likes of Victor Dashkov.

"Do you need space?" she asks and you shake your head _no_ because the thought of not touching her right now is more terrifying than it is revolting.

"Do you need physical contact?" she asks and this time you nod, needing her as close to you as possible.

She bites her lip and reaches up to tuck a rebel lock of hair behind your ear. Just that one touch starts to settle you, but it's not enough to fully do the trick.

"Find one thing," she says, echoing her mantra when you get like this. "Tell me one thing you find beautiful. For me."

Today it's her mouth and the way she's worrying her lower lip between her teeth. You tell her that.

She releases her lip with an impish grin. After a moment, she asks again, "Do you still need physical contact?"

It's a dumb question and she recognizes that when she reads the look on your face. She pulls you in with a soft _C'mere_ and wraps her arms around your shoulders, tucking you into her body as much as she can given the footlong height difference and the fact that you're standing up.

It works, though. There's something about her that keeps you sane, the needle and thread you need to stitch yourself up every time you fall apart. You bury your face in her shoulder, breathing in deep the scent of her shampoo embrace her tight by her waist. She simply stands there, soothing away your fears with a finger tracing your molnija mark and whispered reminders of who you are and where you are.

The thread on your heart is the color of her skin and her hair and her eyes, chunks of bleeding crimson tugged together by stained browns and beiges. You would've given up a long time ago if she hadn't been in your life.

Back inside, the food has arrived and while Rose's parents follow her lead on some new banal topic of conversation, you don't miss the way their eyes flick back and forth between you and her as if they're trying to puzzle out something new about your relationship they were otherwise unaware.

* * *

"Don't laugh," she says that night, dropping soft kisses along your stomach as she pushes herself back up your body. "But I just remembered we need to add milk to the grocery list."

You can't help but laugh anyway, a hand over your eyes and the other cupping the back of her neck as she kisses you, sated and sleepy, her mouth tasting like you.

"I told you not to laugh," she whines playfully, sitting up and lightly slapping your chest, and you only laugh harder, twisting to the side as much as you can with her straddling your stomach.

"'I'll add it," you reassure her as you sober, looking up at her and taking her in. Hair mussed and eyes bright, she looks downright edible even though you've already been going at it for easily the last two hours. She stares back at you and lazily tangles your fingers together, leaning forward ever so slightly. You wonder if she's remembering the first time she had you like this, during the first and only time you engaged her during her field experience back at the academy.

Your bladder decides this is a perfect moment to ruin.

"Let me up," you murmur, and she rolls off so you can disappear into the bathroom for a moment.

She's stretched out languidly amid the mess of pillows and blankets that her — your — bed is right now, and she tries to straighten some of it out when you rejoin her, pressing up against her side. You don't lie like this often, mostly because you can't lay diagonally and so your feet hang off the bed when you're this far down, making it uncomfortable after a while.

The comforter falls around your waist and you press a kiss to the top crease of her bare breast, quiet and content and in love. Her nails run along your back, gently scratching a comforting rhythm. There's quite literally nowhere else you'd rather be at the moment.

"Do you ever think about where you'd be if we hadn't met?" she asks so quietly you're not sure you heard her. When her fingers falter at your silence, you get confirmation that you did.

"No," you reply honestly, your arm resting on her stomach and your finger tracing her name in Russian against the skin stretched just below her chest.

"No?" she echoes.

"I would be infinitely less happy than I am right now," you say, "So it'd be a waste of time to think about it. It's better to live in the moment." You turn your head, prop your chin on the slope of pectoral between shoulder and breast, your finger never ceasing in the skin-pressed lines of _lyubimaya_. She's got this look on her face that says she's worried you're about to hit the retreat button and disappear on her. You momentarily hate yourself for having done anything to make that expression mar her exquisite features. "You taught me that."

"And the future?" she whispers to you, too tired to muster up the worried expression you can hear in her voice. "Do you think about that?"

"I do," you say, and when the fear on her face intensifies, you clarify, "I think about how we're moving in together at the end of the month. I think about how we're talking about finding a house somewhere near Court because we both want some separation between us and our work." You bear your weight on the arm beneath you to reach up with the hand tracing words against her body and caress her face, soothing strokes against near flawless skin. "I think about how we're discussing marriage and future trips to visit my family, how we're starting to build a future together."

Her eyes flutter shut at your touch, and she takes a deep breath, bracing herself for her next words, her hand stilling against your back. "Do you ever think about the bad stuff?"

"I think the worst we could ever go through is behind us," you say dryly, aiming for lighthearted and falling short.

The hand on your back turns into a fist for a beat, like she's fighting off the emotions your words brought over her. It's Russian roulette who's affected by the memories of your Strigoi months; this trigger pull, it's her.

"I used to not think about it," she murmurs, eyes wet when she opens them, and your grip in her hair tightens to help ground her. "Once we were together and working and I was eighteen, I didn't give the age difference much thought. There was no power dynamic to worry about. You were — are simply my boyfriend and one of my best friends and I was — am — only ever reminded of our ages whenever marriage comes up. But then Abe today . . ." Terror has taken over her, seizing her in its hold. "I can't stop thinking about a future where you get tired of me."

"Roza," you say, voice deep and accent thick with pain. "I could only get tired of you if I were dead."

Her mouth twists, and her gaze travels up to the ceiling, trying hard not to cry.

"I'm serious." You push up on your arm, half-hovering above her, and you smooth her hair down, doing everything you can think of to keep her in this moment. "I have loved you through the amazing, the ugly, and everything in between. Not even being Strigoi took that away from us. Time is a powerful thing, but it's not that powerful. Nothing — _nothing_ — could push me away from you, nor would it be enough to make me stop loving you.."

You don't mention that's an incredibly childlike idea for you to think, but that isn't something she needs to hear right now. What she needs is your love and support, your reassurance that you aren't going anywhere.

"You promise?" she asks quietly, looking every bit the four-year-old girl who was once abandoned by her mother for the very profession that initially kept you from loving her properly.

"I promise," you murmur, easing down to press your body and mouth against hers. For her, there's no such thing as a promise you can't keep. She gave you the gift of your soul returned; for that, you will always be in her debt.

"And more importantly," you say when you come up for air, shuddering at the way her hands flex against your sides, "I can't go anywhere when we have milk to buy."

She breaks, laughing into the crook of your neck, and the weight in your chest melts away at the sound.

"I can't believe I said that," she says. "In that context, I mean."

"Oh I can," you say, and you launch into soft, playful teases, verbal and physical, until she falls asleep with the prettiest smile you've ever seen gracing her mouth, a wonder of a woman drifting into dreams you hope are only filled with good.


	4. Of Holes in Walls & Hearts

This is the second part to _Of Fears & Revelations_ (listed as chapter two in this story), so I'd recommend that before reading this so you're not lost!

Set roughly a week or so after _Of Fear & Revelations_ and about a year and half before the epilogue of _The Ruby Circle_.

* * *

It's one of your earliest memories — you, standing in your living room, trying not to pull at the collar of the dress shirt your mother made and then forced you into. You couldn't have been more than three years old, but you can still taste the excitement in the air, will always remember the jubilation on the face of every adult who walked through your front door for the celebration your grandmother had put together for the town. It was the state-sponsored millennial anniversary of the Christianization of the Kievan Rus, and while that meant nothing to you at the time, you've come to understand just how crucial a turning point it was for the end of the Soviet Union.

Every time you hear an American Christian complain about their religion being persecuted, you want to roll your eyes. You've seen legitimate religious persecution in action; between the Bolsheviks and Khrushchev, only a twelfth of all churches in Russia managed to stay open throughout the twentieth century and the complex rules for worship at home were followed to the letter in fear of what might happen if even one of those rules was bent. American Christians really don't know how good they have it.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

You've been staring at a replicated icon of Our Lady of Saint Theodore for long enough that you zoned out hard enough to miss Mikhail Tanner joining you.

As Sonya Karp has become a close confidant, her husband has become just as much of a good friend, and, helpfully, without as much baggage. You're grateful for the two of them. Not only do you need more friends at Court that aren't already Rose's — nearly your entire social circle is flung out across the world — but in a way, they kind of remind you of Mark and Oksana, each interaction lending you a small amount of hometown comfort.

You shake your head. The Court cathedral — among the smallest you've been in, but it gets the name because of its lone onion dome above the altar — is largely empty, save a handful of people scattered around, praying and reflecting like you. The icon in front of you, the Virgin Mary with child, is a particular favorite of yours. The candle beneath that you lit when you first approached flickers away.

"This is about Rose, isn't it?"

Your mouth twists, a dead giveaway. You've said maybe two words to her in the past month and it's reaching a point where you don't know if you're both genuinely frightened of the Conversation That Still Must Happen or if you're both stubborn enough that this has turned into a competition of who can hold out the longest before saying something.

Mikhail's face is pensive and dimly lit as he looks up at the gold-flecked icon, the face of a man more at peace than you. "Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends." He glances at you watching him. "First Corinthians, chapter thirteen, verse seven and part of eight."

You raise an eyebrow.

"When Sonya . . . left," Mikhail says softly, eyes tracking over the wall in front of him, "I turned to religion. I tried to find her, but when I failed at that . . . I was desperate for something — anything — that would answer my questions. Mostly I wanted an answer to why she did it. Was I not good enough for her? Was there something I could've done more? I thought I was paying enough attention, that I was giving her all the love and support in the world to help her get through her bad days, when the magic became too much, and then . . ." He exhales slowly, past burdens slipping across his shoulders and weighing the moment down to the ground.

"Anyway, I had a lot of questions and no answers, and it's not like there's a support group for that kind of thing, so I started coming here when I needed solitude and quiet. Eventually I got curious and cracked open one of the Bibles in front of me. The first verse I read was John five-six: 'When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, 'Do you want to get well?'' I don't know your relationship with religion, so I'm sure it sounds ridiculous to you, but that spoke to me. I don't think it was God — my mother was an atheist, I have trouble coming to terms with some guy sitting up in the sky dictating the personal affairs of all seven billion people on this planet — but it was something. Fate. Coincidence. The universe. Religion gave me structure in a time when I had none."

"It's not ridiculous at all," you say. You give a minimal jerk of your head to the pews right next to you, needing to sit down, and Mikhail follows with a nod. He sits in the pew behind you, so you turn sideways to be able to look at him.

"I grew up going to church but I was never baptized," you start off. "My father didn't want religion touching any of his kids for reasons I still don't know." You swallow to take a moment and gather yourself. Seeing Randall Ivashkov in all his abhorrent douchery when you were out in Michigan recently, thus breaking a much cherished thirteen year dry streak that was his absence in your life, has done wonders for setting back your anger management skills by just as much time.

Deep breath. Six in, seven out.

"I was born at the end of eighty-four, right before the start of the _perestroika_ reforms . . . both my mother and grandmother were active in the movement to get our town's church reopened after it had been closed down in the fifties. I was five when the church was reinstated, and my sisters and I started going every Sunday, like clockwork." You smile wistfully as you give a single laugh, remembering the fights Sonya used to get into with the women older than her, including Kalya despite only being five years older, about having to go to church. You never minded it; your father never came with the family when he was in town, so it was a guaranteed two hours respite from the abuse and drunkenness that awaited when you returned home.

"My grandmother has a Bible from the imperial era, from her grandmother," you continue. "When I was learning English, she would make me translate verses from the Old Testament. It was ingenious on her part; she always took the time to give long-winded lectures on life and morals based on whatever I was working on."

Mikhail laughs softly.

It feels good to share, and you're struck with the thought that maybe you should keep doing this, opening up with others and letting them in. Rose has proven time and time again that others do, in fact, care about your life and what you have to say.

You'll probably spend your whole life realizing all the corners that were fucked up by your father's influence.

"Church was the eye of the hurricane that was my home life growing up," you say so quietly, you wonder if Mikhail even heard you. Your gaze is fixed on some unidentified point far in front of you. "I've always seen it as a sanctuary, as many do, where I have space to think freely." Your mouth turns up in a half-grin. "For as much peace as I've found in Rose, she's the reason I started praying. I managed to get through nearly twenty-five years of my life without ever really needing a reason to, but then she stormed in, and I was lost to her ever since."

A beat passes.

"You know about the vaccine?" you ask because you have a feeling he does and it's suddenly itching at you to get the words out. Tristan is great for being impartial, but the perspective of a friend is equally as helpful.

Mikhail nods.

You tell him what Adrian told you, skipping over as much of Declan's parentage as you can, and Mikhail's only initial response is to keep nodding. After a few moments of thinking, he looks at his watch and finally says: "I won't attempt to give my opinion. It's not a position I will ever be in, so I couldn't begin to hope to know what to tell you. But, something to kick around in your head I feel might be helpful?"

"Anything," you say, willing to latch onto anything that might help.

"James one-twelve comes to mind: 'Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him.' A couple lines in first Corinthians, chapter thirteen also stand out: 'So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.' But: 'If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing.'"

 _Stay realistic_ seemed to be Mikhail's message, and you hear that loud and clear.

"I would stay, but my lunch break is about to end, and I still haven't eaten," Mikhail says, and you stand with him, brows knitting together as you do.

"Why are you here?" Then, realizing how invasive that probably is, you tack on, "If you don't mind my asking."

Mikhail gives a tight-lipped smile that is nothing close to amused. "Sonya's been having a hard week," is all he says, but you know enough about spirit from Lissa and Adrian and even Rose to understand what a "hard week" means for someone like Sonya. He forces some lightheartedness into the smile and claps you on the shoulder. "I'd bet my money on you and Rose pulling through this and emerging stronger for it on the other side. I'm probably the most qualified to tell you that I know what Rose went through when you were gone. No one is going to be more devoted to you than her. If you think for even a moment that she won't go down without a fight, I'd recommend you go get an MRI for potential brain damage. And besides that—" His grin is full now. "—She's crazy about you. At my wedding last winter, she spent more time looking at you than me or Sonya during the ceremony. Even _I_ noticed, and I was the one getting married."

You smile, ducking your head for a moment. Given the first year you knew Rose, your relationship with her being out in the open this second year is still new to you. It's not that you've never been in a serious relationship; it's more that no one has ever come close to making you feel like you'll fly away the way Rose does, even when it's something as simple as when she catches your eye from across the room.

"I'll see you around," Mikhail says and you murmur the same back, turning to face the Our Lady of Saint Theodore icon for another long, silent minute.

Two thousand years and some change ago, a teenager gave birth to a man billions consider to be the son of God, and you can't even tell your girlfriend you'll give up the promise of kids — again — if it means spending the rest of your mortal life with her.

You've told it to yourself before and you'll say it again.

 _Get it the fuck together, Dima_.

* * *

Christian ends up in the clinic later that day after getting knocked unconscious by an uncontrolled punch to the head from one of the offensive magic users during the light combat training you lead every Thursday evening.

"Do you know your name?" the doctor asks, waving a pen light between his eyes to check his pupil dilations.

"You know my name."

"Do you know your name?" the doctor repeats, not having any of his games.

"Christian Ozera."

"Your birthday?"

"It's in my file. Why are you asking me this?"

It's like listening to Rose during her weekly trips to the clinic when you were training her. It's going to give you a headache in about twenty seconds.

"Fine. Who's the Queen?"

Christian grins. "Nice trick question." He then adds, "My girlfriend is our current Queen, because she's amazing."

The doctor huffs a sigh and clicks away her penlight, turning to you. "I'm ordering an MRI just to be safe, but I think he's fine. Have someone keep an eye on him — you, Her Majesty, it doesn't matter. You know all the signs and symptoms of a concussion, I'm sure."

The knowledge is right up there with how to do a roundhouse kick for guardians. You nod. Satisfied, the doctor turns back to Christian.

"Lord Ozera, keep your head up next time so you don't end up giving your amazing girlfriend an early death from worrying about you too much."

It's the kind of non-differential treatment that immediately puts a person in your good graces. You have no time for people who walk on eggshells around royals, treating them as if they invented toilet paper and other useful things. All that separates royalty is their name. Take that away and they're just like any random non-royal, if a bit wealthier.

Royals tend to forget that. It's what you suspect happened with Tasha — you were probably the first person to say no to her, and she snapped, a lifetime of being taught that she was above everyone else, including people like you, coming back to wreak havoc on anyone who stood in her path and denied her what she wanted.

They let you accompany him to the imaging room, and you take the opportunity of not being the one inside the doughnut hole machine to learn from the technician how everything works. It's the kind of thing your mother would love to sit in on.

Your mother opted to not become a guardian, knowing full well she wanted to have and raise lots of children, and she elected to get trained as a nurse at the request of your grandmother, who'd announced that her daughters weren't going to just sit around and wait for a husband to come along. Your parents met not even a year into the program, and she dropped out that summer when she found out she was pregnant with your older sister, a decision you've always wondered if she regretted making. Your grandmother wasn't happy, but given the way your parents' relationship ended, that's something you only know because your grandmother admitted it to you herself, swearing you and Kalya to secrecy.

Your day goes from emotionally tumultuous to _pleasegodwhy — can't you just give me a break — pardon the whining but Jesus fuck_ when you're following Christian out of the clinic. He reaches for the door the same time as someone else, and his whole body lights up when he registers it's Lissa.

Right behind her is Rose, looking decidedly less thrilled. There's something in her hand, and she clasps her wrist behind her back when she notices your eyes flicking over her, hiding the small white package away from your view.

Lissa immediately jumps to know why Christian and you are at the clinic because _shouldn't you two be off teaching Moroi how to punch in a field somewhere right now?_ and Christian responds it was that activity that landed him here but _I'm fine, babe, they just took pictures of my brain and cleared me, I'm as good as new_ , but the conversation leaves you on edge with the way Rose is doing her very best to hide in Lissa's shadow.

You can't help it. Her gaze is fixed on Lissa and Christian, so you let your eyes jump from her face to her pelvis and back up again as you imagine her pregnant. Bile rises in the back of your throat and you focus back on your friends.

"What are you doing here?" Christian asks, which you have to agree is a very good question considering the work day just ended and it's not like Council meetings get that intense.

Rose and Lissa exchange glances and something wordless passes between them. The bond may be gone, but fifteen years of friendship does a lot for developing nonverbal communication with another person. Lissa juts her chin and Rose shakes her head.

"Girl stuff," Lissa settles on, flashing Christian a smile that says he'd rather not know. Her look at you is a bit more pointed, but you have no idea what she's trying to tell you. Women smile when they're mad and cry when they're excited. You grew up with three sisters and you still can't tell what they're actually feeling, so you don't waste your energy trying to figure out how the other gender really feels. You're of the mind that if someone wants you to know what they're feeling, they'll eventually say it out loud.

"You have that dinner with the Badicas in a half hour," Rose says in Lissa's ear, still not looking at you, and you get the distinct impression that you're in for it the next time you're alone with her. Which, fair, you've been avoiding her for a month; this was bound to happen sooner or later. It's just that when Rose is pissed, Rose is _pissed_ , and she has no qualms about letting you know, especially if you fucking up is the root cause.

"Oh, right." Lissa happily leans forward to give Christian a quick kiss. "It's in the west dining room, if you're up for it, Chris."

 _Must be nice to not be in exist in the vacuum of a relationship's ice age._

Lissa doesn't say anything to you as she and Rose leave, the latter of whom slides the mystery package around her body to keep shielding it from your view, and you send up a prayer to whoever's listening that it isn't . . . you aren't sure what.

You just want Rose to be okay above all else.

* * *

Maybe you're a masochist who enjoys suffering in silence — oh, who are you kidding? That's _definitely_ your aesthetic — but of the thirty-two sleeps you've had since coming back from Palm Springs, twenty-eight of them have been at Rose's. You and she have occupied the same apartment longer than twenty minutes for only three of those sleeps.

You miss her, and it pulls at your fingertips, down to the ground and away from your body, that encroaching sense of you leaving yourself only she can fix. It's her, her, _her_ that draws you back in and sets you on your feet again, and with little more than the scent of her pillow and the flash of her hair on her way out the door as you're coming in from another overnight shift, you're swirling down the very drain you're currently trying to unclog.

When work takes you from each other — not you cheating on her with work, like you have been lately — whoever's staying behind leaves sticky notes for the one travelling to find when they get home. After your first trip to California, you came home to an apartment covered in little yellow papers, her random thoughts scattered for you to read. _I miss watching you shave_ on the bathroom counter. _We need apples_ stuck sideways on the freezer door. _Future_ scrawled and slapped on a couple dozen paperclipped printouts of two- and three-bedroom houses in Scranton and Wilkes-Barre, Carbondale and Tannersville. _Today was exhausting. I could never be queen_ in tired print on the bedroom door.

When she came home that night, you scooped her up in your arms and told her that she was already a queen — the Queen of Your Heart and World. She'd giggled and kissed you deeply, erasing the last month of distance, before punching you in the shoulder and demanded you put her back on the ground so she could take a shower.

Tonight, you'd come home to a sticky note carefully placed on the front of the kitchen faucet — _Sink's clogged. Tag you._ — and rather than eat dinner by yourself, again, for the millionth time, you decided to set about fixing a problem you didn't create. You're certain you've got the blockage and your mind has started to wander to the problem of figuring out dinner now that your twenty minute distraction is almost over when the door opens.

Your back is to Rose when she enters the apartment, but the kitchen is tiny — maybe ten feet long, five feet wide, bleeding into the nearly as small living room filled with standard issue furniture — so it's not like she's all that far from you. The unceremonious dropping of keys on the hook by the door reaches you through the sudden fudge-thick silence, and you brace yourself.

"Interesting choice of problem to solve," she notes dryly, and your grip on the drain snake tightens. Already you can feel her bristling, readying herself for a fight.

"You asked me to fix it," you reply, still working on getting the blockage and not turning around to face her.

Her most likely response occurs to you half a second before it comes out of her mouth, and it's every bit as annoyed as you imagined. "I asked you to talk to me about this."

"We're talking now," you say evenly, your own hackles going up even though you know you have no right getting pissed. This conversation needed to happen a long time ago — minimum three weeks ago, when you finally figured your shit out with Tristan — but angry is your instinct. Life has taught you _an eye for an eye_ always produces the results you want despite you knowing, deep down, that isn't a healthy attitude for approaching life.

"No, we're not. I'm pushing you into talking to me because I decided I was going to stop letting you call the shots in this."

"I'm not calling any shots," you say, your brain racing to remember the meaning of the idiom. You can feel yourself starting to reach critical mass. You both are, really.

"Then what the hell _have_ you been doing?"

The words echo strangely close to something you heard your father say to your mother once. The memory floods back, careening into your conscious space and knocking the wind out of you. You and Sonya at the top of the stairs, listening; Kalya standing over the two of you, disapproving. Vika hadn't been born yet, or if she had, she was too young to be sitting with you guys right then. Your father, voice beginning its wind up into shouting. Your mother, timid and fearful in reply.

"Dammit, Rose." The crash of the drain snake against the sink registers an octave lower than the plate that broke against weathered kitchen linoleum. Later, you'll find a dent in the beaten metal, but at the moment, it doesn't register.

You inhale harshly through your nose. There's something about her that always gets you going — emotionally, sexually, mentally — and this is no exception. She pushes your buttons and it keeps you honest, makes you a better person, even if you don't always see it at the time.

"I asked you," she says, voice quiet with all the rage she's doing a much better job of controlling than you right now, "To talk to me. To not shut me out. I told you that I was here."

The muscles in your forearm jump from irritation at being called out as you grip the edge of the sink. "I know that."

"Then why the _fuck_ has _Lissa_ gotten a longer conversation out of you in _one morning_ than I have _all month_?"

"Because I can't look at you!" you shout, wheeling around, fists clenched at your sides as you try to keep yourself together.

Rose is still by the door, arms crossed over her chest, and her eyes are burning like yours. She's Fury incarnate, the wild, avenging angel of your dreams with bags under her eyes and weariness set around her mouth. If you had to guess, she's probably gotten less sleep than you have in recent days. She's never looked more ethereally beautiful, and you've never felt more far away from her.

"You can't look at me," she repeats, like she's trying the words out for herself, trying and failing to believe you. She runs her hands through her hair, roughly pulling out her ponytail and then gathering it all back again, her fingers tangled tight between silk strands of molten chocolate.

A step to the left, deeper into the apartment, and then back to you, hands dropping to her sides. "Here I thought childbirth was supposed to be this wonderful, miraculous thing, but I guess I was wrong if you, the only man I'd ever let father my children, can't even _look_ at me."

Your head starts spinning as you read between the lines. You know you should be focused on something different — how mad she is, how fucked you are — literally anything else but the fact that she's considered having kids with you.

Probably not, if you don't pull your head out of your ass.

The fight's starting to leave you; your whole being is a fraction calmer when you ask her, "You know why I can't look at you?"

"Why, Dimitri? Please, enlighten me with all your world-weary Zen wisdom." It's like she's siphoning off all your anger. A tiny part of you is relieved she's still herself enough to crack jokes, even if they're at your expense.

"Because . . ." Your eyes flit around the room before landing on hers, deep coffee swirls pulling you under like they do a thousand times a day.

She gives you a look and jerks her head, very sarcastically prompting you to go on.

Deep breath. Six in, seven out. When you speak, it's barely above a whisper.

"Because when I look at you, I see everything I've ever wanted, and the longer I look at you, the shittier I feel for dragging you into things you don't want."

"Like what?" she asks, voice nearly as quiet, though her tone is a lot less potent now. Her frozen edges are softening under your gaze. You unravel her just as quickly as she does you.

"Kids. Marriage. Being with me."

The last thing thuds to the floor, a gothic, one o'clock church-bell chime.

Her faces writes a story as a million emotions shift and morph across her features. Shock. Sadness. Hatred. Hurt. Nothing you ever want her eyes to sing or her cheeks to chant, and you realize what you just said. _Fucki—_

The coffee boils over and she flings the door open. "Get out."

"What?" you breathe, your earlier muddle of anger and stress rearing its head again. Logically, you know what's she saying, but it's as if your brain won't process until she says her intentions aloud.

"I said get out." Of what — her apartment, her life — you're not sure, but she adds, "Get out and don't come back until I can talk to my boyfriend and not the stranger who pushed me away last year."

You, the wordsmith in this relationship, figured out early on how to phrase things for the ultimate emotional punch. It's taken her a bit longer, but now that she has, it's a simultaneous kick to the groin and slap to the face as she pushes you off a cliff in a straightjacket.

She's as serious as as she is wholly done with you, so you listen to her, not wanting to screw this up anymore than you already have, and you stalk across the kitchen. It's to the door in two strides, a third out into the hallway, and the slam of door meeting frame rings in your ears for a good five minutes.

* * *

Tristan once gave you his emergency number. This is the first time you've been compelled to even look at it, let alone dial the number and call him.

He meets you by one of the smaller fountains toward the edge of Court opposite guardian housing. He sits on the edge, not minding the droplets landing on his back, and listens to your recounting of your day as you pace with the kind of patience you wish was natural for you.

"I'm going to ask you one thing, Dimitri," he says when you're done and you nod, eager for anything he has to say.

"Have you reconsidered your stance on taking anti-depressants?"

It's the same fucking question he asks every week.

You itch to throw something, but you keep your fists to yourself. He's just trying to help, even if it's the most ridiculous thing you've heard all week.

"Listen to me, Dimitri. I ask you every time I see you because I know you haven't really thought about it," Tristan says, watching you closely.

"Yes I have."

He shakes his head. "No, you haven't. You rejected me the first time I asked and every time since, you've only humored me." He pauses, taking in the way you're shaking with everything today has brought you.

Above the world, deep reds and purples chase away the stars, reminding you that the day's almost over; the sun will be over the horizon in a half hour, in the sky an hour after that.

Just as the good ends, so does the bad. Time pushes on recklessly, healing wounds and building tension. It doesn't care if you need more or less of it; the hands of the universe's clock push on, landing on three, sweeping down to six, pushing up to nine and twelve. You can get through this.

"What do you think medication does?" Tristan asks.

You shrug. You're not quite sure.

"When you sprain an ankle, what do you do? You wear a brace. What's the purpose of the brace?"

"Immobilizes the joint to help it heal," you rattle off.

"The same concept applies to medication," Tristan explains. "Our brains react to emotional wounds the way our bodies do to physical wounds. What's happening to you, to the best of my knowledge, is that life keeps hurting you emotionally without giving you time to heal. It's hard for your body to work on clotting a stab wound in your stomach when you're getting shot in the leg not five minutes later. Medication helps your brain clot all your emotional wounds by bracing it, if that makes sense."

It does. Nobody's ever explained it to you like that, but it definitely makes it more appealing.

"It's not a crutch, where you end up leaning on it more than yourself, not the stuff I want to put you on, anyway. Rather, medication is designed to give you the internal stability you need to work on your external problems. Like the stabbing and shooting, you can't fix your outside issues if your inside issues aren't addressed."

 _Much_ more appealing.

"My professional opinion is this — right now, you should go home and apologize to Rose. Letting that fester isn't going to do anyone good. On Tuesday, I think we should discuss you and medication a little more. That sound like a good plan?"

You nod, adrenaline kicking in, giving you the sudden feeling that ready to take on the world. You'll apologize to Rose, you'll go on meds, you'll fucking fight a bear if it means she never kicks you out again.

Somehow, though, you don't think this is the last time. You're prone to screwing up everything in your life at some point or another.

"Great." Tristan stands and claps your shoulder like Mikhail did not a quarter of a day ago. "I'm glad you called me. It's better to talk than wander around aimlessly in your own thoughts." He flashes a smile before leaving. "I'll see you Tuesday."

* * *

The apartment's silent when you let yourself back in an hour later. Everything's as it should be, save the fist-sized hole in the wall next to the door, and you have a sneaking suspicion Rose is going to be accessorizing around a giant bandage for a while.

She's in the bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror. The knuckles on her hand are thickly wrapped in gauze and medical tape, and your heart aches that she's now hurting physically, too.

A song you haven't heard before is floating through her phone's speakers; she turns it down when you move into the doorway, keeping her gaze fixed on her reflection.

"I've been—" You clear your throat, needing your voice to be steadier than the broken, wavering thing coming out. "I've been thinking."

"Shocker," she interjects, dry as a desert and you don't argue against the insult because yeah, you kind of deserve it right now.

"Tristan's been pushing me to take anti-depressants. Low dose, something not too strong. Just enough for me to get my head on straight."

She finally looks at you, just her head turning the ninety degrees from mirror to you. A few moments pass as she studies you, trying to figure out if you're telling the truth.

"Good," she says, turning back to the mirror. "I haven't said anything because I know that needs to be a decision you make for yourself, but I think it'll be good for you."

Silence falls. You want to ask her how she's doing — _horribly_ — what she's up to — _feeling horrible_ — what she's thinking — _horrible things, about you, probably_ — but nothing seems right, so you let her come to you since she's already let you approach her.

There's a tired beauty in her, this feeling that she's overwhelmed and strung out; that could never take away from the fire in her soul. It's a fire you recognized the moment you met, a fire that matches yours and what drew you to her, like a moth to a flame. The chance she'll burn your wings is miniscule — her bonfire is smoldering right now, fighting against the wet and too big logs of silence you threw on top of her.

The song on her phone fades into a new one, and she grabs a thin piece of plastic from beside her, dread on her face. After a moment, she exhales shakily and holds it to you.

"I missed my period last week," she says and _oh shit, pregnancy test_ runs through your mind as you palm the stick but then she adds, "The woman at the clinic assured me probably about a dozen times that this was the most accurate one she had."

It looks expensive. Someone had bothered to design and build in a computerized screen to say the results in actual letters. NOT PREGNANT blinks up at you, and some part of you breathes a sigh in relief. It occurs to you only then that as much as you want kids, you don't want them _right now_. You aren't even married yet. Speaking of which . . . .

"I can't believe that after everything we went through in the past two years, you think you're pushing me into this relationship," Rose says quietly, turning away from the mirror. She tucks one arm across herself — you're distantly aware of the way it pushes her breasts up and against her shirt but you make yourself focus on her and her problems, the intense make-up sex will come later — and braces her other elbow against her fist. Her fingers play with her lower lip as she stares into some void the bathtub holds that you can't see. "If anything, _I'm_ the one who pushed _you_."

She did. It was a long couple of weeks, between the initial post-restoration hype and fear you were still Strigoi and then the handful of days you spent on the run with her, where all she did was invade your senses, invade your space, invade your dreams and nightmares and literally every single moment of your life until you crumbled against your own willpower.

There was one time — you were curled in the corner, unconsciously seeking as much of a protective embrace as you could in a jail cell, and she was talking to you, pleading for you to let her back in. All you registered at first were the memories: her, sprawled on a three thousand dollar down duvet, her neck a bloody, bruised mess of bites and her eyes like an addict's, vacant and lifeless. Your two greatest fears had been realized that spring — you'd lost your soul and, more importantly, you'd become the evil, immoral creature who once stalked your house and used your mother in much the same way you'd used Rose.

But nothing — _nothing_ — could ever squeeze your heart until it burst inside your chest, bleeding everywhere without so much as a rag to stop the flood, like the look on her face when she reached out to touch you. Utter hopelessness and despair, fear that you would never come back to her.

You want to talk about images of her that still haunt you? The clang of her hand against the cell bars and the defeat in her expression that you didn't reach back — as much as you wanted to, as much as it killed you not to, because you knew one brush of her fingers would send you to your knees and you weren't ready to face what you did just yet — it still sends you into an upright panic at least once a week. She always wakes up with you when these nightmares happen, but you brush it off as Strigoi memories.

It'll be a while before you admit that nothing you did as a Strigoi could ever match the pain you inflicted on both of you when you kept her at a mile's reach from you.

Your knowledge of her is intuitive by now; you're tossing the pregnancy test on the counter and closing the gap in one stride, pulling her into your arms for the first time in a month as she starts to sob, her face buried in your chest and her hands gripping the back of your t-shirt like you'll leave if she doesn't. Your heart breaks all over again and you don't know how much more of this you can take.

She's crying, heaving, wet breaths and hot, salty tears soaking your shirt, but you're starting to relax now that she's pressed against you. Normally, you keep your arms low around her waist to keep her from feeling too short or like you're dominating over her, but right now, you throw that out the window. One arm crosses down from mid-back to hip, the other wrapping around her shoulders and holding her to you, fingers running soothingly through her hair. If you weren't so tall, you'd tuck her under your chin, so you settle for ducking as much as you can to press your lips to the crown of her head.

" _Ya tebya lyublyu moya Roza_ ," you murmur into her hair, over and over, until she calms down into quiet sniffles. You've found that nothing grounds her like when you whisper your love to her in Russian, and this is no exception.

You offer up the bottom of your shirt for her to use since she's soaked the top of, and she steels herself with a couple deep breaths, letting the fabric fall around her hands pressed to the small of your back, your warm skin heating her shaking hands. Her gaze is still distant, somewhere just to the left of your arm.

"If I told you I didn't want kids," she says slowly, fingers twitching against your back. She looks up at you, tears still in her eyes. "Would you leave?"

"God no, Roza, not at all," you breathe, crushing her back to you for a long moment. "The only thing taking me from you is Death himself, in this lifetime and the next."

"But you . . ." She trails off, and you pull back, tilting her chin up with a crooked finger.

"I've given up a child to be with you before, and I'll happily do it again." Your thumb traces the jut of her chin, sweeps up under her mouth. Her eyes flutter shut. "You come before anything else, including any hypothetical children."

She's silent for a few minutes, simply standing in your arms and taking you in. Your hand on her face follows her eyes on yours — smoothing across brows, down the nose, curves around cheekbones and brushes against temples. Your fingers drift across her mouth when she glances at yours, and she kisses the pad of your thumb, lips cashmere soft and feather light.

"I'm still . . ." She sucks her lips in, and your hand skates up to tuck her hair behind her ear, lingering. She takes as much comfort from your obsession with her hair as much as you do. "I don't know what I want. I never thought about having a kid, at least not until I met you. But it was in the abstract, you know? It was 'I feel bad that I can't give him a baby' more than 'We have the option, what do I want?' But now . . ." Her eyes start to water again, and her voice has dipped lower than a whisper. You cradle her face, thumbs brushing under her eyes to help keep her calm. "I'm going to need some time. I'm not sure how long. I've been thinking about it all the time lately, for obvious reasons, but I haven't made up my mind. I just don't want you to hate me if I decide I don't."

The last part is said so quietly, you're not sure if you heard her right; the terror in her eyes tell you that you did.

"I could never, in a million years, hate you for deciding you don't want to have a child." You lean your forehead against hers, the bend pulling at your back awkwardly, but you ignore it because she's digging her fingers into your skin, not letting you go if you tried. "You are all I need to be happy."

She's silent, still not fully convinced.

"Roza, _solnishko_ , listen to me," you say, pulling back to look her straight in the eye. "I had the opportunity to have a very easy life, with children, and I chose _you_. I chose to love you and cherish you, to fight with you and make up with you, to spend however many days I have left on this planet by your side. I chose a life with you that will never be fully private because I would follow you to the ends of the earth just as you did for me. I made peace with not having kids a long time ago, long before I ever even moved to America. I could never be unhappy with you in my life and loving me."

She pushes a smile through her tears, and her hands slid up your back, pushing your shirt up. She cuddles into you, turning her head to the side so she can speak and lean against your chest as the same time.

"And what if I decide I want kids?" she asks. "Maybe not now, but in the future?"

Your voice is steady and sure. "Icing on the cake. And I find icing extraneous, anyway."

Her hands keep sliding up until they're hooked on your shoulders from behind and she takes the opportunity of her position to pull herself up, wrapping her legs around your waist. Your hands jump from her face as she moves, your grip strong on the backs of her thighs even though she's doing all the work at the moment and probably doesn't need the support from your hands slowly sliding up to her ass. She's quick to pull your hair out from its elastic so she tangle her fingers in it when she kisses you, pouring out her heart and every emotion for you to pick up and hold tenderly.

"We need to talk about this more," she says into the space where your jaw curves, nosing intently up to your temple, soft pecks dropped in her path. "But it's been a month and I can only do so much on my own." Into your ear: "If you know what I mean."

You carry her out of the bathroom and make sure to hold her close every time you show her you definitely know what she means.


	5. To Another Year

Hey everyone! Some of you may have read this as part of the VA Valentine's Day Fic Collection, but I'm posting this here as well since it _is_ technically part of this verse (and something I've been planning for a while anyway!). If you haven't read it, you should! There's 11 other stories in addition to this one from a variety of VA fic writers, including my good friend, gigi256. There's a link on my profile  & it's been listed under my favorited stories, so go get reading!

Set a month before the epilogue of _The Ruby Circle_.

* * *

You're almost done shaving when Rose's voice floats into the bathroom from the bedroom. "Babe, where's your passport?"

"Didn't you have take it to Court last week?" you ask, pitching your voice loud over the rush of water from the sink.

"No, Hans needed a copy of your visa for your file. I have that already." She appears in the doorway, fully dressed and putting on small stud earrings. Her face splits into a smirk when she sees you, tiny bits of shaving cream hanging out around your hair and jawline. "I can't believe this. I'm actually ready before you. Has Hell frozen over?"

You reach for your towel, wiping your face clean. "I thought you were supposed to be nice to me on my birthday."

"Eh." She shrugs a shoulder. "So. Passport. Where is it? Zoe will never let us hear the end of it if we delay any of her paperwork."

"Should be in the safe on the bookshelf," you say, reaching for your aftershave. "Give me two minutes."

"Take your time." She pushes up on her toes to kiss your cheek. "You built in an extra hour for _one_ of us to be late, remember?"

"I built in an extra hour for traffic!" you call back, but all you get in response is a big, loud laugh behind her as she leaves.

* * *

Before you can even turn the car on, she starts (lovingly) badgering you about coffee and food, like she hadn't already eaten breakfast an hour prior.

"I can't take you anywhere without you angling for something, can I?" you mutter under your breath, but her ears still pick it up, and she sticks her tongue out at you before informing you that the Starbucks in the shopping plaza around the corner from the house is both open and has a drive-thru.

(College has changed her mind on coffee, and although she continuously refers to it as "bitter, burnt bean water," she sighs happily when you pass her a large drip with three milks and four sugars.)

* * *

The suspicion that you're still not fully dhampir again has trickled down as far as the Alchemists, and when you and Rose enter their Philadelphia field office, all conversation in the lobby hushes as the half-dozen people take you in. The Alchemist holding down the fort at the front desk regards you just as warily as everyone else; she doesn't even take her eyes off you as she dials Zoe's desk number to inform her that her eleven-thirty has arrived.

Five minutes later, Zoe Sage emerges from a door behind the front desk with a tight smile. Her black slacks and light blue button-down look almost exactly like something Sydney would wear. The golden lily tattoo gleams on Zoe's cheek under the fluorescent light, totally exposed with her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. "C'mon back, guys," she says breezily, holding the door open for you and Rose.

Like everything else about the Alchemists, the field office is tightly locked down — it takes four key card swipes, five passcodes, two fingerprint scans, and even a retinal scan at one point to go two floors up, stop by her desk to let her grab what you assume to be your file, and then find an empty conference room on the edge of the floor's bullpen. On the entire walk, the combined presence of you and Rose stops conversations and draws stares, and you do your best to not cower. By the time you sit down in the glass-enclosed conference room — across from Zoe, to Rose's left — you can see Zoe's shoulders are tense.

"This isn't some fun coincidence," Zoe says almost immediately, pulling out sheets from the manila file and clicking open her pen. "I'm the only Alchemist willing to go within a hundred feet of either of you, so they stuck me in Philly for my desk duty. I'm glad my internship is coming up so that I can get out of here."

"I'm sorry," Rose replies, clutching her nearly empty coffee cup with both hands. She's on edge, too. "Where would you rather be, if you had the chance?"

Zoe looks momentarily thrown by the question, frowning before answering, "Boston."

"Why Boston?"

"It's 235 miles from Boston Commons to downtown Bangor," Zoe answers, not looking at either of us.

 _I'd be closer to Sydney_ hangs in the air until Zoe's head shoots up. "Oh, right, I meant to ask, Guardian Belikov. Do you have the documents we asked you for?"

Rose extracts a folder out of her over-the-shoulder bag — you're a little surprised that it could fit without bending, but you learned long ago not to openly question the depths of a woman's purse — and names each item as she produces them. "Green card, two photos, internal passport, and travel passport."

"Birth certificate?"

"I don't have one," you reply. "Not in the States, anyway."

Zoe's brow furrows "It's the… ZAGS office that supplies those, right? I'm saying that correctly?"

You nod.

"I'll get one of our guys to get a copy. You're not submitting anything yet, so I don't need it right away." She scoops up the cards, booklet, and photos. "I'll be back."

"They're all staring at us," Rose whispers as soon as the door quietly shuts behind Zoe. Her eyes are flicking across the bullpen on the other side of the glass wall. "I mean, usually, I enjoy the attention, but this is a little much."

It's almost unnerving how bad they all are at hiding their constant glances in your general direction. You reach for her elbow and give it a soft squeeze. "Do you think they'll stop looking if we started making out on the table?" you whisper in her ear.

The tension breaks like a bubble being popped with a hammer. Rose loses it, pushing her coffee down the table so she put her head down to muffle her laughter. Grinning, you lean back in your padded chair, resting your hand between her shaking shoulder blades.

By the time she comes up for air, Zoe returns and hands your documents back to Rose with a wary expression.

"So," Zoe says, shifting the conversation like Rose isn't trying to calm down, "Guardian Croft sent over your personnel file the other day, and I just need to confirm a couple of things. Your first visa, obtained four years and four months ago, was an L temporary worker visa because you were being assigned out of the European Moroi Court at the time of your assignment transfer, correct?"

"Yes," you say. On the edge of your peripherals, you see Rose listening with rapt attention. It isn't surprising; she's always been fascinated about your life post-school and pre-her, that tiny section of your life nobody else really knows anything about.

"And since it was a single entrance visa, you voided it upon leaving the United States two years and eight months ago for a period of five months, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Did you at any point re-enter the United States before you filed for an H-1B visa one year and two months ago after being transitioned to the American Moroi Court?"

"…Yes."

"When?"

"About one month before I filed for the H-1B."

"On what visa did you enter the United States?"

You pause, glancing at Rose. You know she's also thinking about that time you probably, definitely tried to kill her in Las Vegas when you were still a Strigoi and she was trying to track down Robert Doru. Curiosity is splashed across her face. She's probably never thought of this until now.

"You can speak in hypotheticals," Zoe says, picking up on your hesitation. "We can backdate anything that needs doing so."

"Hypothetically," you say slowly, "I may have entered without a visa at all."

"We can fix that," Zoe replies without skipping a beat. You wonder how many other pieces of paperwork have been backdated by the Alchemists. As annoying as they could be, their importance suddenly hit you full force. You'd never be able to apply for citizenship without them, aside from not knowing what the fuck you were doing throughout the entire process.

"Really?" Rose asks, her surprise mirroring your intrigue.

Zoe nods, opens her mouth, and then seems to decide not to say something. Instead, she scrawls on the back of a photocopy and slides across to Rose, who quickly reads the note and nods, apparently in understanding.

"So then it's my understanding," Zoe says, resuming her line of questioning, "That you've been working in the United States on a H-1B visa since September ninth of last year."

"Yes."

"And you haven't left the United States since?"

"Rose and I went home to Russia for a couple of weeks in July last year."

Zoe waves her hand. "It was less than a month. Hardly matters." She unearths a single sheet of paper and flips it around to face you and Rose. It looks like a modified flow chart. At the top reads _Eligibility Checklist_. "But I wouldn't make a habit of it. In all honesty, the less you leave, the easier this will go, especially considering how much we already have to cover up for you."

"What do you mean?" Rose asks. Her face is scrunched up in confusion.

"It's not much, but it's enough," Zoe replies, nonplussed. "But he _was_ born in the Soviet Union, which affiliates him with the Communist Party, he just admitted to entering and living in the country illegally even if it was a minimal amount of time, and he's served jail time as part of a now-closed criminal investigation, which both your people and mine have documented. That doesn't even count his record back in Russia."

" _What?_ " Rose repeats, this time looking at you in utter disbelief.

You shake your head. "The laws look the other way when a father beats his child, but they're not as forgiving if that child tries to stand up for himself." You raise an eyebrow at Zoe. "I thought that was cleaned up, though."

"We sealed your record and then had it expunged a couple years ago, but this is the US," she says, levelling you a _you should understand_ expression. "If they want to find it, they will."

You shrug. "True."

"So, your job," Zoe says, tapping the Eligibility Checklist in front of her, "Is to go get your green card. We can file all the paperwork for that on your behalf. We've got contacts inside Immigration Services for a couple of reasons, and one of them is to get paperwork for your kind fast-tracked so we have to directly deal with you less. For a human, the process can take anywhere from six months to three years, so definitely err on the shorter side of that."

"What about…" Rose glances at you, her coffee cup, Zoe. "What about marriage? I mean, the concept of a green card marriage exists for a reason, right?"

It's your turn to stare, dumbstruck. You and Rose have talked about marriage in the past, but you've definitely bugged her less after that time she blew up at you for pressuring her and then didn't speak to you for a week beyond "hello," "good night," and "don't worry, I'm alive." And while you haven't said a word in recent weeks, there's a ring that's been hiding out in your bedside table after she Snapchatted her trip to a jeweler with Christian on his quest for engagement ring ideas for Lissa this past summer. It's been waiting for her to bring the topic up again so you know where she's at on the idea before you officially pop the question.

"Yes," Zoe says, blatantly unfazed, and you feel like you've somehow missed an exchange or two. Why is _Zoe Sage_ nonchalant about this while your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth? "He'll be able to get a green card almost immediately, and then it's a three year waiting period before he becomes eligible."

"Okay," Rose says, nodding and not looking at you. "I was just wondering."

Zoe gives another tight smile. "That's what we're here for. Now, if you apply through your job…"

* * *

After your meeting with Zoe wraps up, Rose stops you in the bullpen outside the conference room with a devilish, plotting smile. She grabs you by the lapels of your duster, mutters _they seem like they want a show_ , and plants a huge, soul-searing kiss on your mouth that you happily return after your momentary shock wears off.

Zoe doesn't even manage to say good-bye when the three of you return to the lobby.

* * *

"Happy birthday, my love," Rose says, clinking her water glass against your beer once the server walks away with your order. She plunks her chin in her free hand and watches you take a long sip with a soft smile on her face.

"Last birthday until you can toast with a real drink," you reply, pulling her hand from her face so you can twine your fingers with hers.

"You were far less worried about whether or not I was eighteen than whether or not I'm twenty-one," she challenges, pulling a pout.

"That's only because your fake is horribly made."

"I get into twenty-one-and-up clubs all the time with it."

"With _me_ ," you correct, your voice teasing. "Have you seen a human bouncer willing to even try to take me on?"

She overexaggerates making a face. "Don't flatter yourself too much. Red lipstick and cleavage go a long way on their own."

Without meaning to, your gaze flits down her body. A form-fitting burgundy sweater, tight jeans, and knee-high boots look innocent enough on the surface, but to you, they're an utter tease. You see her in the shapeless guardian uniform often enough that literally anything else on her makes her look like a fashion model.

"My eyes are up here, Dimitri," she jokes, outright giggling at the blush that you feel fill your cheeks.

You clear your throat. "Anyway, no, your fake wouldn't have worked here at all. Besides, I'm trying not to get arrested again, and contributing to the delinquency of a minor is a quick trip to prison."

"Ignoring that huge opening you just gave me," she says, her expression telling you that she can't _believe_ you gave her such an easy opportunity to make fun of you, "That does let me segue into something that's been bothering me since it was brought up…"

"Which is?"

"What the _hell_ kind of record do you have in _Russia_?"

"Oh, that?" You shake your head. "A neighbor called the police that night—"

"The night you beat up your father," she clarifies for you, knowing exactly what night you were referring to but unable to articulate.

"Yes, that one. Anyway, there had been a lot of shouting and things breaking until I got involved, and then the shouts moved outside, so the people around us were understandably scared. My mother covered for me, saying I'd come home drunk and she was confronting me about it. They weren't too happy when my father showed up at the station an hour later with a completely different story and the injuries to show for it."

"What happened?" Her voice is so soft and you find immeasurable comfort in it. She's the first person outside of your mother and sisters to hear this.

"The judge was good friends with the arresting officer, who my mother had turned down several times when they'd been in school. I was initially sentenced to three months in a juvenile prison, but the Alchemists stepped in and knocked it down to a pretty heavy fine because I was starting my novice training soon. Going to prison would've screwed that up a bit."

"Yeah, just a bit." Rose's smile is just as soft as her voice. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, even though you were totally in the right."

"Solnishka, I broke the _law_."

"And whose idea was it to _break me out of jail_ so that I, your once _underage lover_ , could go _on the run_ from the _authorities_ , which made _you_ a fugitive as well in the process?" Her eyebrows are sky high. "Forgive me for failing to see how you _aren't_ a career criminal, comrade."

"Fair enough," you laugh, releasing her hand when the server returns, an appetizer in hand.

"Congrats," the server says, glancing from you to Rose, who takes the boat of meatballs excitedly. "Are you two celebrating?"

"It's also his birthday," Rose practically gushes, and that feeling of severely being out of the loop returns from earlier. As far as you're aware, this late lunch is _only_ for your birthday.

"Then double congrats to you, sir," the server says to you, smiling almost as big as Rose is. Right before she leaves, she says to Rose, "I'll see if I can snag you two a dessert or something."

"That'd be great," Rose replies, eyes lighting up even further at the idea of free sugar.

"Am I missing something?" you ask once the server's gone.

"Oh, I don't know," Rose says a little too casually, playing up scratching at an itch on her jaw while her left hand awkwardly juts towards you, like she's doing everything in her power not to shove it in your face. Your confusion deepens, seeing as you're not quite sure what you should be looking for. "No idea, really. Couldn't possibly think of why. Nope. Nada. We're all just imagining—"

And then, like the skies opening above, the light catches it at just the right angle and the ring you've had hidden in your bedside table for three months glints on Rose's third finger, and you feel your jaw literally drop as reality finally dawns on you. Zoe's lack of surprise, the server's excitement and happiness for you and Rose… it's because she's _wearing your ring_.

"So, are we…" you start lamely, and Rose's face finally splits into a grin bright enough to light all of the universe.

"If you still want to get married, then yes, I do, too," she says. "Although I want an engagement about as long as it took you to notice. Some guardian you are," she adds teasingly.

A dozen arguments rise up on your tongue, ready to take her on — people in Russia wear their rings on their right hands, you're tired from only getting a quick nap after your shift last night, on and on — but the words die on your mouth when you realize it isn't quite worth it. Keeping that gorgeous smile on her face is.

One thing starts bugging you almost immediately, though: "How did you find it? _When_ did you find it?"

"Last week." Rose shrugs. "I was looking for your passport, which you can have back now, by the way, and I found the box shoved in the back. I knew what it was immediately, which was unfortunate because I couldn't get my mind off it. Last night at work, I decided that I kept thinking about it because I was curious to see how it looked on me, and that if I was curious, then I was probably okay with the idea."

You're still staring at her in a mixture of awe, love, and devotion, unable to say anything.

"I figured your birthday was as good a day as any to try it on." She smiles, holding it up in front of the both of you, admiring it glistening in the sun streaming through the window behind her. "I think I'll keep it, if that's alright with you."

"That's definitely alright with me," you whisper, your voice thick and low with emotion.

"Good." She leans in for a kiss just as big and hot as the one you shared earlier in the bullpen. "Because I love the way it looks on my finger," she says under her breath when she comes up for air.

" _Otlichno_ ," you murmur back.

"Speaking of…" Rose leans in for a second, smaller kiss and then sits back, her eyes transfixed on your mouth before trailing down your body. "You're going to have to teach me all the Russian words for stuff like 'fiancée' and 'husband' and wife."

" _Nevesta_ , _muzh_ , _zhena_ ," you rattle off, eager to hear them roll off her tongue.

" _Moy muzh_ ," she tries out and promptly grimaces. "Not as pretty as 'my husband', but I guess I'll have to get used to it."

"I guess you will," you say, grinning despite her reaction, and you lean in for another kiss because she, Rose, your fiancée, _vasha nevesta_ , deserves all the love in the world.

" _Ya tebya lyublyu_ ," she whispers against your mouth.

"I love you, too, Roza," you murmur back, as in love with her as you've ever been.


End file.
